


The Lily

by LadyNimrodel



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Changes to timeline, Domestic Thorin, Florist Bilbo, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-23
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-03-31 19:28:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 40,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3989932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyNimrodel/pseuds/LadyNimrodel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Bilbo Baggins drags an injured Thorin back to his home after finding him lying unconscious in the woods, he does not realize something dark has followed them back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One Good Deed

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place about ten years before the beginning of the Hobbit, when Bilbo stumbles across an injured Thorin during a walk. But he soon finds that he has more than a wounded dwarf on his hands when something dark begins haunting the Shire. Strange shadows, nightmares, and odd cold weather in the middle of summer is only the beginning....

Bilbo Baggins loves flowers. 

In fact, he is the Authority on flowers in the Shire, with a garden as big as a small forest behind his smial, filled with every kind of species of flowering plant possible. Sun- loving flowers and shade-loving flowers. Flowers that climb and others that creep. Flowers that smell like the most fragrant perfume and flowers that have no smell at all. Flowers whose petals open to greet the sun and others that only wake to the gentle touch of moonlight. Flowers that bloom before the frost of winter has fully abated, or that waken in the spring. Or the summer. Or the fall. Or some that bloom all year round. Flowering trees and flowering bushes. Flowers that love water and those that do not need very much water at all. If it is a plant that, at some point in its life, is crowned with petals then it is in Bilbo’s garden. 

Ah, what a garden!

No other is its match, surely, not unless one counted the tree-gardens of the elves. But as no one from the Shire has ever visited the elves, they cannot say. All they know is Bilbo’s garden is unparalleled in its beauty and he (and his garden) are admired greatly. Indeed, Bilbo is often just as busy dispensing advice to other hobbits as he is tending his garden. To Lillia Proudfoot across town he explained that her big rose bushes are beginning to rot because she waters them too much and shows her how to redo the flower beds so the soil will drain properly. To Milo Boffin he patiently states (again) that his climbing jasmine is not going thrive if it is not moved into full sun and why do they have to keep going over this anyway? And Rosmunda Took comes to him with a poor potted orchid in a bad way because she left it outside to the snails. Bilbo just tisks and takes it from her, tells her to come back for it in a week. And to keep it inside, for goodness sake! 

All this before elevenses, too. 

Bilbo shakes his head fondly as he walks through the long, shady lanes that march through the East Farthing woods. Afternoon sunlight slips gently through the gaps in the leaves and dapples the ground with warmth. White daisies cluster at the edges of the dirt path and bright orange snap dragons bob peacefully in the shade of the trees. There is a beauty to these woods, he thinks, that would do his fellow hobbits some good. But the inhabitants of the Shire tend not to venture much farther from their homes than the market or over the river to Buckland. The latter is also extremely rare but it happens. Usually by his more adventurous cousins on the Took side of the family. But, much to the gossip monger’s delight, Bilbo likes to wander farther than the average Hobbit. 

Once a week he goes off in the morning and wanders home in the evening. He will fill his pack with food and a book, a trowel and a bunch of small envelopes (for seeds) and sets out before the sun is even finished rising. Anyone awake and outside when he passes just shake their heads. Takes after his mother, he does, and no matter how much of a Baggins he is, he is also a Took with a right nasty habit for adventure. But Bilbo is immune to their whispers by now. With both parents gone before he reached adulthood, he did not have anyone to protect him from the gossip (his mother) nor encouraging him to act like a proper gentle hobbit (his father). All he has of them is Bungo’s garden and Belladonna’s perchance for curiosity. After ten years, and now a proper adult, his expertise of all things flowers has earned him deep respect in the Shire and if anyone still whispers, it is with fond exasperation. 

Sometimes his wanderings take him to the north, to Bindbale Wood, which has big groves of lilacs and several small streams that he likes to read beside. To the west are the downs, long rolling hills often dotted with purple and white wildflowers. He likes the eastern woods the most, though, because sometimes he catches a glimpse of an Elf between the thick trees. There is a lovely, many tiered waterfall and clusters of thick, dark pines and wild cherry trees that bloom white and pink and red in the spring. But Bilbo’s curiosity is for the Wood Elves more than any flower or tree. For he has caught glimpses of their shining robes and snatches of their songs and he hopes one day he might even get to talk to them. Only last week he encountered a whole group moving gracefully through the trees, a few of their voices lifted in song. Never has he heard such beautiful voices before, clear and lilting, so very different from any Hobbit song. 

If only he was brave enough to approach them, instead of skulking behind the drooping bows of a tree! How he would love to learn their songs, listen to their stories, just talk to one of them. Maybe today, he tells himself as he strolls through the cool shade. Maybe today he would finally get to meet an Elf. 

Yet the forest is quiet save for lilting bird song and the babble of a small brook hiding in the foliage somewhere off to his right. There is a warm breeze tickling at the leaves above his head and the grass along the side of the dirt track. It tugs at his chestnut curls and he finds himself turning his head into it, catching a whiff of distant flowers and the earthy smell of dirt and green, growing things. Bilbo pauses to lean on his trusty walking stick, smiling at the pictures the wind brings back with it. No voices can be heard and there is no evidence of Elves but he is not discouraged. After all, there was a lovely cluster of Sweet Irises, purple and white, that he managed to get a couple bulbs from earlier and up ahead is a grassy little clearing perfect for lunching in. No, he is not overly disappointed to meet no Elves this day. After all, he started these treks into the forests for the flowers so today he counts as a success. 

With a happy sigh, he starts up again, eager for lunch. In his pack waits salted ham and fresh strawberries from the Gaffer’s garden, a sweet loaf of bread, a pat of butter, and a small jug of honey. There is some cheese and some grapes and another jug of cool red wine. Even thinking about it makes his mouth water in anticipation and he walks a little faster, excited to reach his lunch spot. 

Much to Bilbo’s dismay, when he rounds the bend in the road and moves between the two big oaks at the edge of the clearing, he finds it already occupied. 

With a squeak of fright, he stops abruptly. 

A person lays on the ground, limbs akimbo and face buried in the grass. Hair as black as pitch spreads out around him like spilled ink, long and curling. Too broad to be a hobbit, but too short to be a man, Bilbo does not need to see the dark beard to know it is a dwarf that is heaped in his favorite luncheon spot. 

The figure stays still as he dithers on the road, twisting his hands about in indecision. Should he help? Clearly something is wrong. But the thought of getting involved frightens him. 

He could just walk away. Any hobbit with a brain knows you do not go poking at strange people, especially if they are not hobbits. There are many stories mothers tell their fauntlings about why that is a bad idea. But to leave him? As soon as he thinks it, he dismisses the possibility from his mind. Dwarf or not, the stranger is clearly hurt? No, he cannot turn away. Even so, it takes more courage than Bilbo even knows he has to step silently into the clearing. He belatedly realizes he could just run back and get someone to help; Hamfast would come with him and maybe Drogo, if he bribes his cousin. But Bilbo continues to inch into the clearing alone, gripping the straps of his pack with white-knuckled hands.

Finally, after what feels like an age, he stands a few paces from the figure. Dark strands of hair are tossed about by an errant breeze and the broad back lifts with each slow breath. The dwarf remains still, not a flick of a finger or flutter of the single visible eyelid. 

Slowly, so slowly he thinks he can hear his muscles creaking with the effort, Bilbo slides his pack off his shoulders and carefully places it with his walking stick on the grass behind him. He holds his breath as he moves but nothing clatters or clinks and he can breathe again when they are safely down and out of the way. Then he realizes that maybe he should have made some noise after all. He has no idea how to wake the stranger up. And wake him up Bilbo must since there is no way he can carry the dwarf back to Bag End. 

Bilbo bites his lip and his fingers twitch against his trousers. 

Does he poke the Dwarf? Does he just call him? Bilbo is afraid of startling the stranger and he is even more afraid of touching him. But there is no other way and after taking a deep breath, he shuffles as close as he dares. 

“Hello?” his voice comes out as a squeak and when the dwarf does not stir, he is forced to clear his throat and try again, “Hello? Excuse me, Master Dwarf?” Thick fingers twitch where they are curled against the carpet of grass but otherwise, the stranger remains unconscious. With a shaking hand, Bilbo reaches out and pokes at a bared forearm and is properly put out when his bravery results in nary a shift in breathing. The dwarf’s face remains hidden and the dark hair slides down over what little he can make out of a strong, bearded jawline. Sitting back on his heels, he lets out a sharp breath. Well, nothing for it, he supposes. 

“Wake up!” he cries as he takes hold of one broad shoulder and shakes it. The dirty coat is rough against his palm, nothing at all like fine, hobbit made silks and wools and cottons, “Wake up, Master Dwarf! Come on, then, I cannot carry you and you cannot stay here.” This close he can smell sweat and metal and underneath it all, blood. The metallic tang makes him feel a little ill but he does not back away. Instead he shakes the shoulder a little more gently and calls a little louder, “Master Dwarf, if you stay here, it might rain on you! I’m sure I saw some clouds bef—” the shoulder under his hand jerks and he is halfway across the clearing before he realizes he has even moved. 

The dwarf, now awake, stares at him through the dark curtain of his hair, single visible eye wide. Bilbo returns the wild look with his own, heart galloping frantically at the base of his throat. The moment stretches between them like sweet taffy pulled unto breaking and instinct to flee makes his limbs shiver. But he stays still because blood still clings to the dwarf’s face and there is pain in the tightness around his eyes. Finally, after what feels like an age, the dwarf drags himself into a more upright position with evident difficulty and growls something in a language Bilbo has never heard before. 

“I-I’m sorry, I don’t—”

“Who are you?” the dwarf barks, using the back of a shaky hand to wipe at the bloody mess on his face. Bilbo winces in sympathy at the sight. 

“Bilbo,” he answers, voice squeaky and nigh unrecognizable, “Bilbo Baggins. I was just walking through, minding my own business and I thought to stop for some lunch. But the clearing I was going to stop in was…occupied. With you,” he bites his lip and shuffles a little closer to the dwarf. He gets a suspicious glare but a small hobbit is nothing compared to a big, strong dwarf like this one, “Are you alright? Only, you were quite difficult to wake and you have a bit of blood,” he gestures to his own face, indicating the blood. The dwarf grunts but does not take his eyes from Bilbo. How blue they are, he thinks inanely, as blue as the sky above their heads. An odd color for a dwarf. He has only personally met a few in his wanderings but he would remember if anyone had eyes as startling as this dwarf does. 

“I was…attacked, I think,” thick fingers scrub a little at the short beard and silver rings gleam in the light. 

“You think?” worry gnaws at Bilbo despite himself and he cannot help but step a little closer. The dwarf does not notice, looking at his red stained fingers like he has never seen blood before. 

“They…I don’t know. I recall…being set upon in the darkness…a group of—of dwarves but none I knew,” heavy brows draw down sharply and the dwarf seems to reel, like he has been hit again. Bilbo closes the distance without thinking, keeping the dwarf upright with an arm around his broad shoulders. It is a testament to how poorly the dwarf feels that he barely even acknowledges Bilbo’s sudden presence at his side. The smell of metal and blood is thicker now and the heat under the rough clothes beneath his hands is like touching fire. 

“Do you…have somewhere close by to stay?” he asks and gets a long look in return. 

“I was on my way back to my home in Ered Luin,” he pats at his belt and an expression of dark fury flickers across his face before turning into resignation, “It seems I have been robbed as well.” Bilbo bites his lip, studying the way the broad shoulders droop under the heavy coat. There is no way the dwarf will make it to Ered Luin in the condition he is in and with no money. Something sharp tugs at Bilbo’s heart and he knows at once what he must do. 

“We can sort all this out when we return to my home,” he says as soothingly as he can, already trying to figure out how to get this injured dwarf all the way to Bag End with no incident, “But first we have to get you there and I certainly cannot carry you.” the dwarf shoots him an odd look, as if he is caught between amusement and distrust. 

“Your home?” he finally growls, pushing his hair away from his face. A few strands tickle Bilbo’s wrist, “How do I know you aren't leading me into some kind of trap?” something dark colors his voice but still he does not move away from the arm about his shoulders. Bilbo rolls his eyes. 

“Do I look like the nefarious type?” he demands, jostling the dwarf a little in his annoyance which earns him a wince, “See? You are hurt and you need help. If I wished you ill, I would have simply passed you by and let the elements decide your fate. But since I did not, you are just going to have to trust me.” Silence follows his words and he backs away so only his hand keeps the dwarf sitting upright. Blue eyes cut to his face, as as hard as steel and cold as glass and he thinks that this dwarf could be dangerous, if he so choose. As bravely as he can, Bilbo returns the look with a steady one of his own and finally the dwarf drops his eyes, sagging into himself. 

“Yes, alright. I thank you,” the dwarf murmurs, the droop of his shoulders looking oddly defeated. Bilbo smiles. 

“There you go. Come on, let’s get you on your feet.” Somehow, between the two of them, they manage to get the dwarf standing, though he winces with every sharp breath or when he accidentally twists his torso too much. One arm curls around his side, blood still gleams upon his brow, and he looks less than steady on his feet. But Bilbo feels like he has won a small victory when he steps away and the dwarf can stand with no aid. Unsteadily, yes, but still standing. Some of the distrust has melted a little from those odd eyes and perhaps that is a victory too. Bilbo hurries to get his pack and hands his walking stick to the dwarf to lean on. At first he thinks the dwarf will refuse but after only a short moment of hesitation, he reaches out with one unsteady hand and takes it with no argument. His other arm remains curled around his side, pressed close as if he can squeeze the pain away. 

Bilbo feels another stab of sympathy. 

“I’m afraid it’s a bit of a walk back,” he cautions as he watches the dwarf take a few unsteady steps, pain tightening the corners of his lips, “A few hours walking at a good clip,” at that the dwarf wavers, going a bit pale and Bilbo reaches out again to steady him. The sleeve of the dirty coat is of some kind of leather, travel stained and of an undeterminable color, smooth under his fingers.

“I have run farther with more than a couple broken ribs,” the dwarf rumbles, blinking through the sticky blood on his face. Bilbo just shakes his head. Stubborn, this one. He does not bother arguing. 

“Wait just a moment,” he pulls his handkerchief from his pocket, one of his nice handkerchiefs with his initials embroidered at the corner, and wets it with the water from the skin he wears slung at his hip. Squeezing out the excess water, he goes to wipe the blood from the dwarf’s face and only gets a warning snarl for his trouble. Bilbo glares right back.

“Don’t be like that. You cannot walk into the Shire wearing a mask of blood. As it is, the uproar your presence is going to cause will be enough of a headache,” he snaps. Distrust stares back at him out of sharp blue eyes but the dwarf is leaning heavily on the walking stick so he does not turn away Bilbo’s help all together. Not yet. 

“Then why are you helping me, if it’s going to cause you so much trouble?” the dwarf snarls, like a wounded animal in a trap.

“Because you need help. Don’t you? Or I could just leave you here and let you try your luck with the next person who comes around. I warn you, this road has been known for some unsavory types,” he continues to hold out the handkerchief, a drop of water rolling down his wrist and under his sleeve. The dwarf stares at him some more and Bilbo is beginning to think that the staring thing might be some kind of affliction. Finally, with very obvious reluctance, the dwarf reaches out and snatches the dripping cloth from the hobbit’s hand. With a roughness that makes Bilbo wince and give a fleeting thought to his poor, now ruined handkerchief, the dwarf wipes at the blood on his face. It smears as much as it is wiped away and Bilbo has to take the square of fabric twice more to re-wet it and try to wring some of the blood out. It is vivid and scarlet as it runs into the grass. He tries very hard not to think about it and ignores the queasy feeling in his stomach that has replaced hunger. 

When the dwarf is done, his handkerchief is beyond saving but the blood on his face is mostly gone. Bilbo smiles mildly up at him and tucks the poor sad scrap of cloth away. 

“Better, Master Dwarf,” he says then holds out what is left in his water skin. The dwarf takes it without hesitation this time and guzzles every last drop, some of it running in clear rivulets through his short beard. Bilbo realizes he is staring when the skin is handed back to him and he quickly busies himself with sliding the strap back over his shoulder. 

“I thank you, Master Baggins,” the dwarf finally says, once again leaning heavily on the walking stick. The walk back to Bag End is going to prove interesting, to be sure, “You are being very generous to a stranger.” Bilbo waves his thanks away. 

“Not a stranger if you tell me your name. I cannot keep referring to you as Master Dwarf,” this earns him the smallest crinkling of skin around those startling eyes. Not a smile but the beginning of one. He wonders what it would take to make this dour dwarf crack a grin. 

“Thorin, son of Thrain, at your service.” Bilbo feels himself smile a little wider. 

“Thorin, then,” the wrinkles deepen and the blue eyes warm just a little, “Come on, we should start back. It’s going to take a long while, I should think.” 

——————————

So they start off, Thorin clearly trying to take longer strides than is entirely comfortable and Bilbo trying not make it obvious that he is hovering. It would do neither of them any good if the dwarf ends up in a heap on the road. 

The forest is warm and full of soft breeze, which tugs at Bilbo’s and Thorin’s curls alike. A woodpecker knocks at a stump to their right and he catches the flash of brown fur as a rabbit is disturbed from its hiding place. They walk slowly through dappled shade on the quiet road side by side, slow enough that he despairs of making it back to Bag End before sunset. But he keeps the pace Thorin sets and carefully watches the dwarf from the corner of his eye. 

Thorin is quiet, voicing no word of complaint nor making any small talk. At first Bilbo stays quiet too, thinking surely the silence is due to the pain the dwarf is clearly in. But he suspects, the more he observes the broad figure out of the corner of his eye, that perhaps Thorin is quiet by nature. He is so used to hobbits and their habit for abundant speech that at first he is a little uncomfortable. Even walking alone, he often sings songs or makes up little verses. Yet after a while, he finds that if Thorin has no desire to talk, Bilbo can fill up the silence enough for both of them. 

“Do you mind if I sing?” he asks lightly and enjoys the bewildered look he gets in return. 

“No, not at all,” So he sings, raising his voice with a happy walking song his mother taught him when he was young. It is a song of open skies and long roads and a warm, waiting home at the end of the journey. When he finishes, he catches the tiny smile that curls up the ends of the dwarf’s mouth, noticeable on his normally stern face. Bilbo likes the sight of it. 

“You sing well, Master Hobbit,” Thorin rumbles, smile gone but eyes still warm. Bilbo laughs. 

“Hardly! But any good adventure deserves a good song, don’t you think?” this earns him a low chuckle and he catches the shine of blue eyes glittering with amusement. 

“And is this considered an adventure?” the dwarf asks. 

“Well, I am bringing a dwarf back to my home after finding him lying about in a ditch,” he glances at Thorin from under his curls but if his words bother the dwarf, he sees no evidence of it, “Usually the most excitement I have is finding a rare flower or catching sight of elves through the trees. Never spoke to one, though,” he says the last wistfully, though he does not miss the way the dwarf stiffens at the mention of elves. Instantly his eyes grow cold and his lips pinch together in dislike. Bilbo makes a mental note not to mention elves in Thorin’s presence. 

“Would that my own adventures were so mild,” the dwarf says somewhat sourly and Bilbo wrinkles his nose. No mentioning elves, then. 

In an effort to lighten the mood again, he sings another song, this about following the stars to safety and then another. By the time he finishes his last song, they are nearing the edge of the forest and it is far past any decent luncheon hour. He thinks it is fortunate that his stomach has made its displeasure known because he can see Thorin sagging, pain making him pale and eyes sharp. From where they are he can only just make out the golden fields through the trees that boarder Hobbiton and knows it will be another long couple of hours back to his front door at this pace. 

“Are you hungry?” he blurts out suddenly and feels himself turning red when Thorin glances at him, “Only, when I found you, I had been meaning to stop for lunch. You don’t mind if we stop for a bit?” The answer writes itself over the stern face in grateful relief. The pause is less for the food and more so that Thorin may rest but he thinks it is better not to say so. Even if they both know the real reason. So they move off the road and Bilbo sets his pack down under the low bows of a wide chestnut tree whose roots make welcoming benches where they poke from the grass. Thorin lowers himself gingerly onto a wide root, exuding weariness. They will be very lucky to make it all the way back home on foot, Bilbo thinks as he swallows against a flood of concern and begins setting out the food he brought with him. 

“You planned on eating all that food by yourself?” the incredulous question makes him look up from where he is putting a spoon into the jar of honey and meets Thorin’s wide eyes. Confused, he looks down at the spread. Bread and cheese, grapes and strawberries, honey and cured ham, tomatoes and olive oil. A respectable amount of food, if he does say so himself.

“What’s wrong with it?” he demands and gets a blink in return. 

“Nothing,” Thorin says in a strangled voice and accepts a few slices of ham with a bit of bread from Bilbo so he need not bend over. Not sure whether he should be offended or not, Bilbo remains silent and passes food to Thorin when he needs it. He does not eat much, even though Bilbo suspects it has been a while since the dwarf’s last meal. No one is really hungry when they are in pain, he supposes. Few words are exchanged while they eat, except when Thorin turns down the tomatoes with a thinly veiled look of disgust. 

“What do you mean, you don’t like tomatoes!?” Bilbo cries in outrage, offended for his lovely, hard earned tomatoes, “I’ll have you know I grew these myself and they are some of the most coveted tomatoes in the Shire!” Thorin just eyes him narrowly and takes a long swallow of the sweet wine. 

“Dwarves are not known for their love of vegetables,” Thorin grumbles reluctantly, slowly munching on a slice of honey covered bread. Bilbo just scoffs and eats all the tomatoes himself. More for him, at least. Finally the food is gone (admittedly consumed mostly by Bilbo) and, belly pleasantly full, he watches as Thorin scrapes some stray honey from his short beard and sucks it neatly off his thumb. Color has returned to his cheeks and lips and he does not sag where he sits quite so terribly. A good sign, Bilbo thinks. Hopes.

“Do you dwarves have any songs you sing while traveling?” he asks, curious despite himself. As a fauntling, he was often told his curiosity is very un-hobbit like and it would get him into trouble one day. Yet even for all those warnings, he still asks questions no one else would ask and sticks his nose where it clearly does not belong. And so what if he is curious about dwarves? He has never really had the chance to talk with one at length before, having met only a handful in passing, and as far as questions go, asking about songs is fairly harmless. What he wants to ask would certainly be considered prying and he thinks that, given time, Thorin will tell him how he really came to be unconscious and injured in the middle of the forest. 

“We have songs, yes,” Thorin answers, his deep voice slow, “But they aren’t really meant for travel. Our songs are meant for the depths of the earth. Mining songs and songs of craft and smithing…for darkness and stone,” the black eyebrows draw down sharply but Thorin’s face clears quickly, “Deep and thunderous things, sung to resonate with stone and gems and metal.” Even saying so, Bilbo wishes he could hear at least one. These songs sound like mighty things, deep from the throats of gruff dwarves. 

“They sound amazing,” he responds honestly and enjoys the way the pale eyes wrinkle at the corners. 

“Dwarven songs are something to behold, yes,” Thorin agrees, eyes distant. There is something sad hiding in the lines of his face but Bilbo is hesitant to ask about it. He may be helping this dwarf but that does not mean he has the right to pry. So instead he gathers up the remains of their lunch (which is nothing more than a few stray grapes and the blanket he had spread on the ground before putting the food down), humming as he does so. If the steady gaze of his companion unnerves him as it follows his movements, he tries valiantly to ignore it. He supposes that if he is to have this dwarf under his roof, he may have to get used to the staring. 

Even if those eyes feel like they are weighing him and the sharpness of them makes him cold. 

So engrossed in his task of cleaning up and putting his pack back together, he nearly misses the way Thorin has whipped around, gazing back towards the road with a frown. He does see the way the dwarf gropes at his belt for a moment, as if reaching for a sword. Bilbo stills. 

“What is it?” he asks quietly, chills prickling along his neck. The forest is quiet. When did the birds stop singing? Thorin does not answer his hushed question but Bilbo does not need him to. He can guess that there is something lurking in the shadows that have made the birds go quiet. The very idea fills him with dread and he shrinks back against a thick tree root, clutching his pack to his chest. 

For long moments, they sit in silence, waiting and listening. There is nothing to be heard, not a single rustling leaf, not one chirp of a bird. The forest, moments ago so cheerful and full of summer’s warmth, suddenly feels cold. A threat hangs on the air, a slither of ill intent, making it suddenly hard to breathe. Out of the corner of his eye, he thinks he sees something move, something dark and low to the ground. Thorin sees it too, twisting his head in that direction. Bilbo is not sure what frightens him more; thinking he saw a shadow or having it confirmed by someone else that he really did. Fear runs cold fingers down his back and the very breath stills in his lungs. 

The entire forest feels like it is waiting.

And then, just as Bilbo is sure he will snap from the tension, he hears, distantly, a jingle of a bridal and the steady clopping of horse hooves. Instantly, the feeling of waiting fades and the forest is once more bright and inviting. Relief makes him weak and he nearly topples over when he lets out a sharp breath. Thorin glances at him and he returns the look with a sheepish smile. 

“Just a horse cart,” he says weakly but the line of Thorin’s shoulders stays tense and his eyes dart around, piercing and searching. Above their heads a robin calls and the moment is gone for good, leaving Bilbo feeling foolish. Eyeing the dwarf with some trepidation, he shoulders his pack. When Thorin goes to stand, he manages to get up half way before he goes white around his lips and slumps back onto the root. Worry gnaws at Bilbo but when he moves to help, the dwarf waves his hand away. 

“I will be fine momentarily,” Thorin grumbles, still rather pale. It is all Bilbo can do not to remind him that they had plenty of moments already. If he cannot get up now, another few minutes will not make a difference. He begins to suspect that it is more than a few broken ribs that ails Thorin. Biting his lip, he looks towards the road, where the sound of the horse cart is swiftly approaching. To his knowledge, only farmers going to and from Bree are typically be found traveling upon this road. It would be a great stroke of much needed luck, for he doubts the dwarf can walk a few paces let alone all the way back to Bag End. Bilbo holds up his hand.

“They are headed the way we are. Perhaps we can hitch a ride,” he says quickly and darts away before Thorin can protest, back to the road to intercept the wagon. 

They are indeed in luck, for the farmer is none other than Jeb Longbottom, coming back from selling barrels of his famous Longbottom Leaf in town. He hails Bilbo when he is spotted on the side of the road and pulls his pony to a stop. 

“Hiyah there, Mister Baggins,” he calls, pushing his straw hat back off his forehead, “On a walk, are ye?”

“Yes, it’s a beautiful day for a bit of a jaunt,” Bilbo responds amiably, showing none of his urgency. Between the odd silence only moments before and the worry that Thorin seems to be unable to stand, a ball of anxiety has grown in the pit of his stomach. All he wants now is to be far from the shade of these trees and behind the safety of his round green door. 

“Aye, it is at that. Just on my way from Bree, as it happens. Sold five whole barrels today!” Apparently Jeb had not noticed the strangeness. Bilbo rubs his damp palms on his trousers and keeps his expression openly bland. 

“A successful day, indeed,” he praises then takes a deep breath, “Ah, I hate to be a burden but I met a friend while walking and he seems to have come to some grievance. Could we trouble you, perhaps, for a ride back into Hobbiton?” Even as he speaks, there is a whisper of sound behind him and when he glances over his shoulder, Thorin stands there like a wraith, skin pale and looking decidedly unsteady on his feet. Jeb gives a sharp gasp when he notices, round face going slack with surprise. 

“Oh! My, I’m sure I don’t…”

“I will be sure you to keep you in mind when the tomatoes ripen,” Jeb pauses, caught between distrust of a strange dwarf in his cart and Bilbo’s coveted tomatoes. Finally he stutters a yes, eyes still a little white around the edges and if he clutches at the reins in his hands with tight fists, Bilbo easily ignores it in favor of helping Thorin into the back of the cart. He thinks the dwarf may knock his hand away but it remains cupped around a thick elbow, uncontested. The climb into the cart is more of an awkward shuffle and accompanied by more than one grunt of pain. The scent of blood is heavier when he stands this close to the dwarf and now he is sure Thorin hides more injuries than broken bone under those heavy clothes of his. Finally, the dwarf is in the cart, listing heavily against the side. He looks even worse now, sweat shining on his forehead, though he just glares when Bilbo suggests he lay down and rest. 

“I doubt I shall be doing any resting being bounced around in the back of a cart,” Thorin says dryly, stubborn even though his blue eyes are clouded in pain. Bilbo sighs. 

“Suit yourself,” and pads around to climb next to Jeb in the front. With a click and a flick of reins, they are off, trundling down the road. Ahead, sunlight marks the end of the forest and a heavy weight he did not know was pressing on him lifts away. The forest is bright and warm and there are no lurking shadows to be seen. Still, he wants nothing to do with the forest anymore and heaves a sigh of relief when the cart shambles into the bright sunlight beyond the trees. 

Jeb Longbottom, seemingly forgetting that he had been frightened of the dwarf currently hunched in the back of the wagon, talks at length as he steers his cart down the wide dirt road. The topics range from the amount of rain they have had this year and how it has helped the crops to the birth of another grandchild just the other day. Bilbo nods and makes agreeable sounds when he needs to and keeps one eye trained on Thorin. The broad back sways in time with the motion of the cart, the dark head lowered. He winces when one of the wheels catches at a particularly sharp rock, jostling them all rather roughly. The dwarf makes no utterance of discomfort but the pain is obvious in the way he leans heavily against the side of the cart. 

It does not take nearly as long for them to make the trip into the Shire as it would have been had they been stuck walking but it takes long enough that afternoon has lengthened, the sun dipping down again and the shadows growing long. They leave the farms behind and approach the main streets of Hobbiton where Jeb will go his own way back to his house and his fields. It is not a very long walk to Bag End from there and he can see the stares of other hobbits as they pass. Every single one of them will not have missed the dwarf slumped in the back of the cart and nor Bilbo’s presence in the front. 

The gossip will spread all the way to Buckland as early as the evening, he is absolutely certain. 

Jeb senses the same, if the way his eyes have begun to dart around and his constant flow of one-sided conversation has stuttered to a stop. If Bilbo had considered asking Jeb to take them up to Bag End, he decides to keep his peace. Jeb would do it but afterwards he would most likely avoid having any interaction with Bilbo. So when the cart jerks to a stop at a crossroads that would take him to the right and Jeb to the left, he jumps down with no protest. Several hobbits stand a ways down the road in front of Gernold Boffin’s house and Lily Brown watched from down the lane arm in arm with one of his Took cousins. All of them stare when he scampers to the back of the cart and lays a wary hand on Thorin’s thick thigh. He does not care about their stares. He cares how low the dwarf’s head had bowed, chin nearly on his chest. 

“Mister Thorin,” he says softly, just as Jeb clears his throat and tries not to be too obvious about hurrying them on their way. The dwarf peers at him through the heavy curtain if his hair, skin pale and lips set in a thin line, “I’m afraid we’ll have to walk from here. Our welcome, it seems, has been worn out,” he gives Thorin a wry twist of his lips to let him know what he thinks of that. It earns him a shallow grunt and he lets the dwarf use him as a crutch with a heavy hand on his shoulder. It takes some doing but finally Thorin is standing on the dirt of the road, leaning heavily on Bilbo’s shoulder and breathing shallowed. 

“Thank you for your aid, Jeb,” he calls even as the cart starts to pull away. He receives a half-hearted wave and a nervous glance for his trouble. 

“Hobbits are odd creatures,” Thorin mutters under his breath as he watches Jeb’s retreating back. Bilbo thinks to bristle but then he realizes that there are more eyes staring at them, hobbits watching from open windows and doors as he stands in the middle of the road supporting an obviously injured dwarf. The sigh that gusts past his lips is heavy and resigned. 

“Indeed we are,” more like irritatingly nosey, “Well, come on then. My house isn’t too far,” he watches Thorin waver, blue eyes dark and deepening sunlight making the shadows under them heavy. But he walks with only slight hesitation, a step behind Bilbo, like a great, hulking shadow. Half of Hobbiton is out of their doors now, all staring at them as they pass. Admittedly, it is odd to see a stranger pass through the Shire. Sometimes a Ranger or two steals through the outer fields like shadows, caught only in passing by watchful farmers. Dwarves are often seen traveling the Eastern road and men too, in bigger groups. But all stay clear of the Shire proper and none have been known to interact with a hobbit for more than briefly swapped greetings. And certainly not a hobbit from a well-respected family leading a tall, injured dwarf to his home. 

“This will be a scandal to be talking about for years,” he observes when he sees Thorin eyeing Mari Proudfoot and her husband Vern who have stopped working in their garden and are staring at the pair as they pass on the road. Bilbo gives them a falsely cheerful wave, “A story to be trotted out on holidays and at birthday parties.” The dwarf snorts then winces. 

“Is it so scandalous?” he asks in a low voice. Before he can respond, Thorin stumbles and Bilbo catches his elbow. Though he suspects if the dwarf falls, there is no way he can prevent it. 

“Careful,” Bilbo murmurs and Thorin sneers at him for his trouble. But he does not try to shake Bilbo off. After a few paces, he maneuvers the heavy arm so it is around his back and presses his shoulder into Thorin’s side, “That’s better. Just up the road, around the bend. You can see the top of the smial now, right there,” he points with his free hand. A solid warmth presses against his side, like a wall of sun warmed rock. It is not as uncomfortable as he would have thought, “To answer your question, yes, this is quite out of the ordinary. We hobbits are not very fond of adventures or strangers and the gossip will be…intense,” he remembers the first time he went off wandering about in the surrounding countryside. One would have thought he ran all the way to the sea to elope with an elven princess!

“Will it not inconvenience you?” Thorin asks, voice tight. Bilbo peers around at him and is desperately glad they are only down the lane from his front door. The dwarf looks minutes away from passing out. 

“Probably but it won’t be the first time I’ve been the subject of gossip,” Thorin sags suddenly against him and Bilbo’s knees nearly go out from underneath him. “Here, now, stay with me. You’re much too heavy to carry,” Just then he sees a figure coming out of his gate and he has never been so grateful to see Hamfast Gamgee in his entire life. If there is one hobbit he can count on, it is Hamfast. Bilbo hails him, the weight of heavy dwarf getting heavier by the minute, “Hamfast! Hello! A moment, if you would!” He can see his gardener’s smile from all the way down the lane as Hamfast changes course to meet him. 

“Mister Bilbo! Good afternoon!” the smile fades to worry quickly when he sees how Bilbo bows under Thorin’s weight and he hurries the rest of the way to meet them. Bilbo, breathless now, barely manages a squeak of protest, “Oh goodness, what happened? Here, Mister Bilbo, let me help,” and, without a moment of hesitation, Hamfast inserts himself under Thorin’s other arm, taking half his weight off of Bilbo, who heaves a sigh of relief. 

“Thank you, Hamfast,” he wheezes as they maneuver the dwarf up the road, “Had a bit of a mishap, I’m afraid.”

“Not to worry, not to worry, no need to explain to me, Mister Bilbo,” Hamfast says, voice almost cheerful, “To your house then?” Bilbo nods, throat tight. Thank Yavanna for his steadfast gardener. Something warm flares in Bilbo’s chest. The rest of the Shire will stare and mutter behind their hands, calling him wild and unpredictable and nattering about his ruined reputation but not Hamfast. Loyal to a fault, Hamfast Gamgee is and he knows with a certainty that should anyone attempt to gossip about him, Hamfast will put them quickly and sharply in their place. Family is one thing, he thinks as they reach his front gate, but friends are something else. He is glad to have at least this one. 

Then he has to concentrate on guiding Thorin through the gate, the three of them shuffling awkwardly in order to fit and still keep Thorin upright. 

They make it up the walkway, through his doorway and into his front hall with many a huffing and puffing. He can see, when he awkwardly tips his head to the side, that the dwarf is trying to walk under his own power. How he has squared his jaw and how his fist clenches tightly by Bilbo’s cheek. But there is no doubt in his mind that Thorin would be in a heap on the floor if his hobbit crutches were to step away. 

“Were to now, Mirster Bilbo?” Hamfast asks, voice strained, after Bilbo has kicked his door shut with his heel. 

“Straight down the hall, then to the right. Guest room across from mine,” he grunts. There is a rumble from the dwarf, a sound that could be words in another language or just a sound of discomfort. He ignores it in favor of shuffling down the hall, forced a little in front of Thorin by the rounded walls. The arm around his shoulder his heavy and his hip keeps bumping against the metal of Thorin’s heavy hauberk and he thinks of the bruises he will sport tomorrow. But then they are through the hall, into the darkened room and finally, finally, with much maneuvering, the dwarf is laid out on the bed. Bilbo rolls his shoulder with a sigh. 

“Mister Bilbo,” Hamfast begins but now is not yet the time for questions. Thorin’s breathing is quick and labored, his eyelashes dark slashes against his pale cheeks has he clenches his eyes shut. 

“In good time, my friend. I need your Bell’s healing expertise, please.” Hamfast glances at the bed, caught in shadow, at the dwarf lying still while clutching his side and nods sharply before scuttling from the room. Moments later, the sound of his front door clicking shut echoes through the house. Bilbo breathes, relieved, then looks over at his guest. Thorin’s blue eyes glitter at him from under heavy brows. 

“Let me get some light in here and a fire going and then we can get you out of all that armor,” he says softly and gets a low grunt in response. It seems that is the only response he will get so he bustles over to the window and draws back the curtains, letting the orange afternoon light spill into the room. Though it is a pleasantly warm day, he stokes up a merry fire in the grate, golden light spilling over the hearth and then the candles sconces above the mantle and on either side of the bed. The warm light makes the sweat on Thorin’s brow gleam and the strong lines of his face look almost harsh. He watches Bilbo move about the room through slitted eyes, gaze sharp despite his obvious pain. 

“I need to take your clothes off,” he murmurs as he approaches the bed then promptly blushes when he realizes just how that sounded, “I—I mean, not all of them. Just so we can…can see where you’ve been injured,” Bilbo swallows any more stammering that might escape and catches the way one corner of Thorin’s lip curls up in an unsteady smile. 

“Go on,” the dwarf rumbles, shifting with a wince against the quilt. Bilbo bites his lip. But there is no escaping that piercing gaze so with shaky fingers, he starts with the wide leather belt that holds the coat closed around Thorin’s waist. Dwarven clothing, he finds, is like a puzzle. With buckles and straps and clever little catches in the most unexpected places. Once the belt is off and he manages, with a little help from its owner, to ease the heavy leather coat off, he scrabbles at the hauberk before he realizes it is held together with a clasp around the neck and another around the waist but underneath. He huffs and it takes a couple tries of searching fingers before he can finally get it open. Then he has to figure out how to pull it over Thorin’s head. 

“Can you lift your arms?” he asks and though it clearly pains him, the dwarf obediently raises his arms so Bilbo can shuffle the armor over and off. He nearly drops it, it is so heavy. Oblong metal pieces fit together over tough leather, held in place with tiny, clever pins. He marvels at it as he lays it over the chair where the coat and belt are already neatly draped. It is a wonder that Thorin, injured as he is, managed with all this extra weight hanging upon him. When he comes back to the bed, the ever watchful eyes are closed, though they open when he reached out to relieve the dwarf of his leather vambraces. 

Then he sees the blood staining the side of Thorin’s tunic and he sucks in a harsh breath. 

“We’ll have to take your shirt off too, I’m afraid,” he says softly, apologetically. The dark head moves in a slow nod. The tunic is less cooperative than the rest of Thorin’s clothing, getting stubbornly stuck under his hips. He thinks the dwarf is laughing at him when he mutters under his breath but finally he pulls it free and gently slides it from under broad shoulders and free. 

Bilbo bites back a gasp. 

A dwarf, he finds, is as different under his clothes from a hobbit as his beard and round ears. Muscle like hewn rock is thick on his chest, shoulders and arms. Without his clothes, he is not nearly as big, waist almost trim, but he is still bigger than any hobbit. The dark hair that curls over his chest and travels down past his naval is daunting too, black and thick. But these are just perfunctory observations. It is the blood that is smeared on his side and staining the tops of his trousers that draws Bilbo’s attention. He nudges Thorin to roll his hips to the side so he can see the wound better and has to take a deep breath to fight sudden faintness. 

The wound is thin but deep, undoubtedly a stab wound. It is not bleeding now but it had been not long ago, red blood still fresh at the opening. Bilbo swallows thickly. 

“I’ve had worse,” Thorin says softly, as if he is trying to reassure Bilbo as he lays flat again. Bilbo huffs, catching sight of a ragged scar arcing over one shoulder. Worse indeed. Even so, he does not feel reassured. 

“Well, I have not seen worse so allow me my concern,” he responds, more sternly than he means. It earns him a long look, unreadable in the dour face. If Thorin is going to say anything, Bilbo does not stay around to find out. Instead he rushes around, digging up clean linen and boiling water so that by the time Bell arrives, the wound on Thorin’s side has already been cleaned and the room readied. Hamfast hovers in the doorway as his wife leans over the dwarf, his normally cheerful face drawn. 

“You’ll have to be stitched up,” is the first thing Bell says, examining the ugly, gaping hole. It is bleeding again, a slow trickle of blood dripping onto the bedding. Bilbo supposes he will have to toss that quilt and is very glad he left one of his least favorites in this room. The dwarf remains silent, eyes watchful and shoulders tense, as he watches the curved needle being held in the flame of the candle, as Bell threads it with fine, stiff thread, as she gently wipes the wound clean with a wet cloth. Only when she pinches the skin closed and slides the needle into skin does he shut his eyes. His face is a study of concentration and his fists lay tightly closed upon the sheets. 

Bilbo has to look away when Bell begins to stitch, stomach queasy. He is pathetically grateful for both Bell and Hamfast. Though not truly an official healer, Bell grew up the eldest of many siblings and took to fixing them up when the occasion arose. Though still young, she is often called upon as a midwife or when someone has been injured in the fields. Bilbo quails to think where he would be now, without her aid. Certainly there is no way he could stitch up a wound! The very idea makes him shudder and suddenly he is in desperate need for some air. So he takes the bowl of now-bloody water away to replace it for clean water, glad for a moment away from the smell of metal and blood. His kitchen welcomes him with warm, buttery light spilling in through the window and he breathes in the fresh air, drags it into his lungs eagerly.

Now that he is home and the dwarf he dragged with him is getting the care he needs, the tension of the day catches up with him all at once. Exhaustion pulls at his limbs and there is a dull ache between his eyes. Saving someone is tiring work and he hopes he does not have to make a habit of it. 

“No more dying dwarves in the woods for me,” he murmurs to himself as he makes his way back to the guest bedroom. Just one dwarf is more than enough. 

Bell has finished stitching by the time he returns and he helps her wrap the bandages she brought along with her around Thorin’s torso. The dwarf does not protest when he is manhandled except when Bilbo accidentally jars his ribs. 

“Another injury?” Bell asks softly, looking up from where she is putting the needle she used back into her bag. Thorin is watching again, eyes mere slits but he remains silent. 

“He mentioned broken ribs,” Bilbo responds, rubbing his fingers against his waistcoat. 

“Well, not much to do for that save wrapping them and staying quiet until they heal,” here Bell shoots a look at the dwarf, her eyes steely. It is a very brave hobbit indeed to give a hulking dwarf Thorin’s size a look like that. Bilbo’s admiration for her grows, “I can come back when he is up and moving but that shouldn’t be for at least a few days. The wound was deep and the stitches need a little time to set,” Thorin grunts, the sound of it harsh, but he still does not protest. Given the chalky color if his skin, Bilbo doubts the dwarf would be able to level himself into a sitting position for a while, let alone get out of bed. Even so, when Bell stacks some more clean bandages on the bedside table, she gives both Thorin and Bilbo a long, steady look, “Be sure to get enough rest and drink as much water as you can. You lost a lot of blood,” and Bilbo is shocked when the dark head nods once. 

 

And then those ever watchful eyes slide closed and do not open again for a long while.

—————————

In the confusion of blood and stitches and tucking a sleeping dwarf into his nearly too-small guest bed, Bilbo has completely forgotten about the moment of silence and fear they experienced in the forest. With the sun shining in through the windows and the happy sounds of the Shire all around, it is easy to forget. 

For now.


	2. the Arrival of a Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You might want to read this one with the lights on

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for the lovely, amazing comments, they are a huge motivator!

Before leaving that night, Bell makes sure he knows how to tend to his charge. “Keep the wound clean, now. Change the bandages every couple of hours and make sure he doesn’t tear open all my hard work. A few days in bed should see him well enough to walk around and I promise to come and check on him,” she said as he ushers her and Hamfast into his kitchen and goes about brewing them some tea. Before he can even fill the kettle with water, though, Bell catches him by the elbow and looks at him steadily, “You must be watchful of fever. Wounds that nature…” she trails off and shakes her head. 

“I understand,” he assures her, though he does not feel very confident, “I don’t know how to thank you. Both of you. Truly, I would have been at a complete loss without you,” Bell waves him off but Hamfast huffs, indignant.

“What are friends for, but to help each other when help is needed?” then he pats Bilbo on the shoulder and takes a seat at the kitchen table, happily snagging a biscuit from the bowl Bilbo leaves out especially for guests. Bell winks at him and they both accept their tea cups with good humor when it is done brewing. ‘Thank you’ still feels insufficient but he says it again anyway. 

After that, the conversation turns to different matters and neither ask him how he came across a dwarf bleeding out in the woods or what happened to said dwarf to end up like that. The first he feels disinclined to answer and the second he cannot answer at all. He wonders if Thorin even knows himself. Outside the open kitchen window, night slowly steals over the land, though moonlight already tips everything in silver. It brightens the path outside when he shows the Gamgees out and his heart is glad to see it. The light of stars and moon is a comfort this night. 

It is the only company he has once he closes his door, spilling through the round windows of his entry and teasing at his bare toes upon the flagstones. Moonlight and a lone dwarf. 

An odd trio, Bilbo thinks, yet somehow fitting. 

He goes to bed early that night, checking in on his guest before he slips into his own room across the hall. The fire still crackles in the grate, though not as heartily as it did before. It throws warm, gentle light onto the bed where Thorin is a still lump under the blanket Bilbo had thrown over him earlier. Colder light from the moon does not reach the window he left thrown open but cool air circulates through the room, easing away the scent of blood. When he steals into the room, the dwarf does not even turn a hair, face cut in strong, bold lines by the light of the fire.

Later he will come back in and tend the stitched wound as per Bell’s instructions but for now he just makes sure the blanket covers Thorin’s bare chest, blows out the candles and lets the dwarf sleep. 

—————-

And sleep Thorin does. Through the night and well into the morning.

It is strange, after so long being in his house alone, to have someone else filling up space in his home. Though asleep, the dwarf has a strong presence. Bilbo is aware of him even in the kitchen or while working in the garden. Perhaps it is because Thorin is simply there, where no one else has been for many years. Oh, there have been guests who have stayed overnight at Bag End, of course. Mostly cousins. Bilbo quite likes when Drogo comes to stay, young though he is, or even when he is invaded by a couple of his Took relatives at a time. Their presence is familiar, though, simple. Even the ever rowdy Adalgrim is uncomplicated company. But a dwarf, he finds, is very different to have around, though he cannot pin down why. 

Especially since Thorin is asleep. 

Finally Bilbo comes to the conclusion, as he makes breakfast and mind keeps wandering to his charge tucked away in his guest room, that it is the excitement of the whole situation. Between the finding of the dwarf in the woods to dragging him to Bag End and giving him medical aid, it is no wonder his attention seems stuck on Thorin. The most excitement in his life since the death of his parents, besides catching glimpses of elves between trees, was that early frost three years ago that killed all of his lilies. 

How tragic that was, all of his lovely lilies lying about in the dirt like they had been beheaded. Just the memory makes him feel helpless and sad. It was his father who had first planted the lilies and they had been Bilbo’s favorite flowers. White and yellow and orange and all three of those colors at once. White ones with red and red ones with white. It was the purple, though, shot through with a crimson so dark it was nearly black, that had been his father’s greatest pride. He had bred that subspecies himself. To this day the large section of the garden dedicated to the lilies is not the same and his father’s beautiful purples are gone for good. 

Bilbo laughs at himself when he realizes he is comparing the death of lilies to having a dwarf sleeping in the cool shade of his home. 

They are not the same. 

And yet. 

For some reason, one he cannot explain, they feel the same. No, Thorin is not going to die, not on his watch but there is something about the dwarf. He is different from anyone Bilbo has ever met, mysterious and serious and regal. Change clings to him like a cloak, like he is a harbinger of shifting tides. There is much more to him, Bilbo thinks, than his gruff demeanor and pretty blue eyes. But the mystery must stay a mystery for now and the best Bilbo can do is keep an eye on his injured guest and field off his curious neighbors. 

“Here are the poppy seeds you ordered, Miss Proudfoot and no, I will not be answering any questions about any dwarves at this time or any other. Good day,” Bilbo slams his door harder than strictly necessary in Mauve Proudfoot’s face and does not feel bad about it in the least. That is the fourth one today! At least Mauve came with a legitimate excuse, since Mauve did indeed pay him for some poppy seeds last week. But the three others before her had no such excuse. In fact, they did not even bother to pretend they were not craning to see around him, in hopes to catch a glimpse of a dwarf. “Bloody nosey neighbors, ringing the bell all day and asking a million questions,” he snarls as he stomps back to his kitchen where he still has not finished eating his lovely breakfast. 

As predicted, the gossip spread to the far reaches of the Shire and he is half afraid to just go down the lane and see to his post, sure that he will be made a spectacle of. Just peering out the lead glass window of the den confirms several hobbits loitering further down the lane. 

“Confound them,” he mutters, plopping down at his kitchen table. No sooner does he reach for his fork is there another knock upon his door. Bilbo slams his hands on the table in furious exasperation, “No! No, I am not at home!” he cries and retreats from the kitchen, trying to escape by moving deeper into his smial. 

Unsurprisingly, he finds himself standing in the open doorway of his single occupied guest room. What is surprising is how Thorin sleeps on, despite the racket and the carrying on this morning. Bilbo scratches at the edge of his ear, pondering. He had already changed the bandages, had done as soon as he got up with the sun, and the dwarf did not stir then. Nor does he stir now, dark head turned so Bilbo can only see the way his dark curls spill over the pillow. 

The bell rings at the front of his house and Bilbo heaves a long, silent sigh. 

He knows, of course, that as long as the dwarf stays hidden away in his house, his nosey neighbors will call upon him. After food, hobbits greatest passion is gossip. There would have been no escaping it even if he had hustled Thorin in during the wee hours of the morning with no witnesses. Word would have gotten out anyway. That his neighbors are ready to break down his door just to get the newest juicy details is beyond reprehensible, however. With one last look at his sleeping charge, he closes the bedroom door in hopes that will keep the sound at bay for a while longer. 

Then he storms into his study, a thundercloud upon his brow and lightning in his eyes, and makes himself a sign. 

No Visitors  
(Except on Gardening Business)

“And if anyone doesn’t like it, they can fall into a thistle bush,” he positively growls, taking a moment to admire his handiwork. There is someone at the door when he throws it open but not someone looking for gossip. Hamfast looks at him with his fist upraised like he is about to knock again. Bilbo pauses in his mad, headlong flight to the gate, ire easing somewhat at the sight of his friend. 

“A good morning to you, Mister Bilbo,” Hamfast says, eyes a little wide and staring at the sign Bilbo holds tightly in his hand. 

“Good morning,” he replies, “I apologize if I seem…irritable. There have been nothing but gossip seekers banging on my door all morning long and I have had enough,” he glares at Sandy Thorn who is currently reaching for his front gate. Something about the heat in his expression makes her falter and then turn away, chin in the air. Bilbo huffs. 

“Aye, it’s all about the Shire by now, I’m afraid. I tried discouraging anyone from disturbing you, Mister Bilbo, but some must have slipped past me,” he sounds apologetic and Bilbo pats his shoulder, feeling guilty. 

“You are not responsible for keeping nosey bodies away from my door, Hamfast. This storm will settle eventually. Until then, this” here he waves the sign about, “should keep away all but the most tenacious, I should hope.” With that, he goes about attaching the stern note to the front gate and takes a moment to peer up and down the lane. It is empty now, filled with sunlight and the sound of birdsong. Peaceful. He breathes it in, enjoying it while he can. Until he sees Hamfast eyeing the sign doubtfully and he deflates in defeat, “It was a vain hope, I suppose.” 

But he leaves it on the gate anyway. 

“Would you like to come in for some tea?” he asks Hamfast, who still stands on his front stoop wearing a worried frown. 

“Ah, that is very generous of you, Mister Bilbo, but I’ve just come to deliver a letter, more like,” he holds out a creamy white envelope, held closed with a neat, pretty yellow seal with his name and address meticulously written on the front. He sighs heavily when he sees it, cursing the bad timing. He takes it reluctantly, liking nothing better than to set it ablaze. Mistakingly thinking Bilbo’s ire is directed at him, Hamfast pulls his hat from his head and twists in around in his hands, “I’m sorry, Lobelia came across me while I was trimming your hedges, like I do every other Wednesday, and since you’ve been disturbed quite enough today, I offered to take it to you myself…” 

“It’s alright,” Bilbo says reassuringly, patting Hamfast on the arm, “Just that time of year again,” he pockets the letter, promising to read it later. 

“Ah, I thought it might be,” Hamfast shakes his head, “Nasty business, that. It’s your house, fair and square, and it’s not right that she must pester you so, if you don’t mind me sayin’.” 

“I am of the same mind, my friend, but the law allows anyone who might stand to inherit to bring out my father’s will and have it looked over for discrepancies whenever they wish,” that his cousin chooses now of all times just adds to her many…charms. She does the same every year and has done ever since his mother passed. Usually she will wait for one of the anniversaries of their deaths but it seems this year she will try to use the gossip and his new house guest as a means to keep him off-kilter. 

“Aye, but I still say it’s not right,” Hamfast grumbles and Bilbo smiles. 

“No, it’s not,” he agrees and claps his friend on the shoulder. The letters used to hurt, back when the pain and grief of losing his parents was still fresh in his young heart. But though he still grumbles at the unfairness of it, the hurt is small and dull now. Let her make demands. Bag End is his and will remain so until he dies. He still has time to settle the issue of an heir and does not plan on passing away any time soon. In the mean time, he has a dwarf holed away in his guest room, half the Shire burning with curiosity about it, and a garden to keep well tended. Lobelia can play her game but he has better things to occupy his time than marching to her tune. 

Hamfast asks after Thorin before he leaves. His question is asked out of concern, however, rather than an attempt to dig up gossip and it is a relief. Despite Hamfast’s earlier refusals, he thinks he will have to think of something nice to give the Gamgees, both for their help and lack of desire to spread his business about the neighborhood. A pie, perhaps. Or he can bake a lovely carrot cake, from his grandmother’s recipe. 

The thought makes him smile as he trundles back into the house. Baking has always been a favored pastime and lately he has been unable to do any at all. And never let it be said that anything well baked goes unappreciated in the Shire. An appropriate way to say thank you, if there ever was one. 

A low, rustling sound breaks the quiet of his home and he pauses to listen. 

A rustle of cloth and then a grunt, a sound borne of pain quickly stifled. He barely refrains from rolling his eyes. It seems his guest is awake and already trying to crawl out of bed. Bilbo changes course, heading towards the bedroom wing rather than the kitchen as he had intended. After tetchy relatives and being the subject of gossip, he feels like he is well equipped to make one injured dwarf stay in bed. Suddenly, in fact, he feels ready to take on twenty orcs if need be. The letter in his pocket puts steel in his spine and straightens his shoulders. 

So much so, he is ready to wage war when he reaches the guest room door and swings it open. 

“Awake at last, I see,” his voice snaps the silence like string broken even though he keeps it gentle and the look he gets in answer is both annoyed and guilty. Thorin is indeed awake and sitting upright, body turned so he can slide out of the bed. His face is still pale and his eyes oddly bright, though his hand is steady where it grips the blanket that has pooled around his bare waist. Bilbo only lets himself look at the bandages briefly and not the breadth of strong shoulders or the sloping curve of exposed biceps. 

“Awake and well, thank you,” the dwarf rumbles, bare arms tense as he makes to level himself onto his feet. Bilbo pushes into the room, arms crossed and what he hopes is a stern expression on his face. There is no mistaking the way Thorin’s arms tremble and how he has yet to stand, though he is already in position to do so. 

“Awake, yes. Well is debatable,” Bilbo stops in front of the dwarf and he gets a long, tired look from underneath dark, heavy brows. It is not encouraging, despite what Thorin might think.

“Truly, it will take more than this to finish me,” it sounds like he is just arguing to argue though, for he just continues to look at Bilbo with his bright blue eyes looking too glassy to be healthy. Bilbo clicks his tongue in disapproval. 

“What is this talk of dying? No one said anything about all that,” he reaches out and ignores the way Thorin nearly pulls away when he touches his palm to the skin of Thorin’s forehead. Tension quivers in the line of the dwarf’s body but he allows the touch. Bilbo is glad he does; his skin his warm, flushed a little with fever. When he drops his hand, Thorin’s look has become one of resignation, “But a fever can still be serious and it seems as if you have one.” Thorin grimaces and seems to sag, shoulders falling forward. The motion must pain him because he winces and straightens a little a moment later. 

“I’ve not had a fever since I was a youngling,” the dwarf growls in irritation. Bilbo feels a prickle of it himself, making his tongue sharp when he replies. 

“Even if you did not, you still lost quite a bit of blood and needed to be sewn back together so your guts didn’t start spilling out only just yesterday. You will stay in bed until the danger of spilled guts has past, thank you very much. I did not drag you back here so you can ruin my bedding and undo all of our hard work putting you back together. Stay put,” Thorin, surprised, just stares at him and Bilbo returns the look with a glare of his own. Then the dwarf’s mouth twists up in something that resembles a smile. 

“Aye, little wolf, I will at that. Only, I was hoping to use your water closet…If I may,” to which Bilbo can only sputter. How can he deny that?

Getting Thorin out of bed and down the hall so he might relieve himself takes some doing, with the dwarf leaning heavily on Bilbo’s shoulder the whole way. He is half afraid he will have to pick the dwarf up off the floor of the bathroom and waits nervously as Thorin does what needs doing. But thankfully the door opens a few minutes later and they make it back to the room with no indecent. Worry prickles at him though, for the short trek through the hall and back seems to have tired Thorin out and he eases back into the bed with no other protest besides a groan of pain. 

“Thank you, Master Baggins,” Thorin says quietly when he once again reclines on the pillows, eyes shiny under his dark lashes. He watches intently as Bilbo starts to unravel the bandages around his torso. They are still clean and white despite being jostled a few times and though the wound looks a little red underneath, the stitches have held. He frowns at it. 

“I’m no expert, but I’d say that if this goes on much longer, you’re going to have a pretty bad infection here,” Thorin lifts his head from the pillow to look and his eyebrows furrow when he takes in the neatly stitched wound. He does not touch it but his fingers probe at the skin around it. 

“Neat work,” the dwarf praises after a moment, falling back onto the pillows, “I must thank the one who did this. A steady hand and neat stitches in skin is a hard skill to find,” as he speaks, an idea forms in Bilbo’s mind, a half-remembered remedy his father used to use when he fell and skinned his knees or elbows. Whenever he used it, it would help him heal faster and never once did the wounds get sore and infected. He does not realize he is holding one hand up until he looks over to find Thorin eyeing him curiously. 

“I might have something that will get rid of the infection. But I have to make it. So in the mean time, you should eat and take something for the fever,” he smiles then, hoping it is encouraging. Thorin does not return it but those wrinkles have returned around his eyes. The Almost-smile, Bilbo thinks he will call it, “And her name is Bell. The one who stitched you up. Once we get you to rights, you will have ample time to thank her.” The wrinkles deepen and he has never met anyone with such a stony face but such expressive eyes. 

Maybe it is a dwarven trait. 

Bilbo quickly re-wraps the bandages around the strong chest and goes to prepare lunch and the tea. Thorin watches him all the way out the door, eyes dark under the weight of his heavy brow and Bilbo has half a mind to ask if he stares at everyone like that. The only thing that stops him is that it would be terribly rude and he would probably only earn himself more quiet, intense stares.

So he makes some porridge for Thorin, swirling in butter and honey and a little cinnamon. As it plops and simmers over the fire, he goes about preparing tea made of yarrow, blended with a little ginger and peppermint. Bilbo’s grandmother used to make it when he was very young and prone to coming back from his adventures wet enough to make him sick. When his father contracted his cough, Belladonna found the brew helpful in soothing his chest aches and chills. It fills the kitchen with its soft, soothing scent and looks like sunlight when Bilbo pours it into a tea cup. Then he ladles some porridge into a bowl, sets it all on a tray and carries it carefully back to the bedroom. 

The familiar motions of cooking has soothed him enough that he does not mind the heavy eyes that watch his every movement as soon as he steps back into the room. He just encourages Thorin to sit up and gently places the tray on his knees. 

“You should drink all of the tea, even if you can’t finish the food,” he says with as much authority as he can muster, hands on his hips. It earns him a wry lift of one dark eyebrow but Thorin obediently picks up the teacup first and bravely takes a few swallows. He refrains from wrinkling his nose but Bilbo can tell it is a near thing. 

“A fox,” the dwarf says suddenly after taking a few bites of porridge under Bilbo’s watchful eye. 

“A what?” he asks, confused and gets another one of those Almost-smiles around the handle of Thorin’s spoon. He has to wait for the dwarf to swallow thickly before he can get an explanation. 

“You. I called you a little wolf before, when you were so fierce. But you are more like a fox. Small and clever, though no less ferocious, I think,” astonished, Bilbo can only sputter at him. Fierce? Ferocious? Not words that had ever been used to describe him before. In fact, besides great-uncle Bullroarer Took, he knows for a fact that unless someone gets between a hobbit and food, not a single one can own such solid words. Strangely, though he is sure Thorin is wrong, it pleases him, a little. 

“I think you have that the wrong way around, Master dwarf,” he mutters, moving away to fuss at the fireplace. It has long since burned itself down and now he sweeps up the ashes and tidies the grate. Thorin is quiet behind him, eating his food at a slow but steady pace. He is done with the fireplace and moves to the open window when the dwarf speaks again. 

“I don’t think I do, actually. But perhaps you know better than I,” a warm breeze moves through the bedroom, breathing life into the space and whisking away the scent of blood and sweat. The light brightens the air and he can hear a child’s laughter in the distance. Thorin pauses and turns towards the sound, a complicated expression on his face, “This is a very peaceful place,” he notes, voice distant. Bilbo leans against the window sill and smiles, watching the way the climbing roses that cling to the side of the hill bob in the wind. 

“It is,” he says, voice fond, “Not too much happens here besides rainstorms and gossip,” the right kind of gossip that can get a hobbit run straight out of the Shire but he keeps that part to himself. Instead he adds, “And the occasional early frost.” Thorin makes a low noise of amusement. 

“Would that more places were like this,” is all he says and Bilbo turns to watch him eat a couple more bites of the porridge before setting the bowl down. His skin is flushed, especially on his neck and cheeks and his eyes are beginning to droop. Suddenly he seems sad and so very alone, bare chested, wrapped in bandages, and succumbing to sleep. Not helpless. Not that…but. 

But. 

There is that something again, the feeling he is already beginning to associate with Thorin. Something that makes a little hollow pit open in Bilbo’s chest, very much like the one that gapes when he eats dinner night after night at an empty kitchen table or on dark nights when he walks past his parents silent bedroom. Melancholy, he thinks. What he feels is melancholy. He does not know why. All he can do is rub at his chest as he quietly removes the tray from Thorin’s lap. The dwarf stirs, one eye cracking open with great effort for a moment and Bilbo takes the second of clarity to urge Thorin to lay back down. It is done with a shuffle and a sigh and then he is left staring down at the stern face, surrounded by a riot of black and silver curls. The lines do not soften with sleep, he notes sadly. There is darkness in Thorin, he thinks, born of great calamity or loss. 

Then he realizes he is hovering over the bed, staring at his sleeping guest like a ghost, and tears himself away with a shake. 

“None of that now, Bilbo,” he mutters to himself as he collects the tray and used bandages, “Don’t be getting caught up in any strange ideas about even stranger dwarves.” There is much still left to do and half the day gone already. He rattles off the list of things to do in his head as he returns to the kitchen, stomach rumbling at its lack of lunch. An ointment for the infection to make, bandages to be cleaned and boiled, a garden that cannot weed nor water itself, and a letter to burn. Well, the last might be an indulgence but he puts it on the list anyway. 

Most importantly, though, is making himself lunch. Humming, he takes the time to make a lovely sandwich of smoked ham and lettuce and some lovely tomatoes, and licks up every last crumb with enthusiasm. 

It is only as he is carrying his plate to the sink that he realizes the bell on his front door has been blessedly quiet. 

Just like that, the day seems a little bit brighter. 

————————————

The ointment for Thorin’s wound is made with the Calendula herb, oil from the Tea Tree and water boiled with, strangely enough, some kingsfoil, a weed that grows in the quiet corners of his garden. 

He does not know where the directions for the ointment came from. His father claims to have found them folded away in the back of a book but Bilbo has never seen the original paper it was written on. Bungo had copied it though, and Bilbo in turn kept it tucked away in the study. One never knows when the need for such things will arise and he is mightily glad he never threw it away. It takes the rest of the afternoon to prepare and the sharp, clean smells of healing herbs flood his house. 

During the times that he can step away, he checks to make sure Thorin is still asleep before going out to do some much needed gardening. Hamfast must have been by earlier, as the soil was still wet from being watered but some of the roses need to be trimmed of the big, round hips that bob at the tops of the thorny stems and something has been gnawing at his rhododendrons. 

The sun is hot in the sky as he works, leaning towards the leafy cover of the fruit trees at the west side of his garden but not ducking behind them to offer him shade. It makes the light gather like honey, golden and seemingly solid. He fancies he can cut through it with a butter knife, if he so chooses. Thick, sweet scents follow him, the roses, the sweet anise, the nightside, the lilacs and bees dance and flit through the petals in a complicated dance. It is all so familiar, more than the forest roads and the green fields and the small paths through the Shire proper. This is the garden he grew up in, watching his father tend the flower beds and trim the fruit trees. Though his earliest memories are of toddling down the flagstone paths on short legs, trying to catch butterflies and collecting fireflies in his tiny hands, Belladonna used to tell him stories about a hobbit babe who crawled off to have adventures among a jungle of flowers. Now the garden is part of him and his soul is most at peace when he stands amid the flower beds and winding paths he knows so well. No dwarf battling fever in his guest bedroom or nor a storm of gossip waiting to break over his head will take this peace from him. 

And, if he hears the bell at the front door ring distantly as he moves through his garden, well, that is easily ignored.

By the time he is done with his work, a little basket of rose hips hanging from his arm and his rhododendrons safe from pests, the bridge of his nose is pink and a few more freckles have been added to the collection on his skin. Bilbo catches sight of it when he steps into the mudroom at the back of his smial, in the mirror set above a line of hooks. He eyes the new redness as he sets his basket down and hangs up his work apron. The sunburn is not the worst he has ever had, though he notes to rub some aloe on it later. It is evidence of a good days work, he thinks, satisfied. 

Upon entering the kitchen, late afternoon light turning everything golden, he finds the herbs and oil are ready. It is a simple matter of following the directions carefully, blending crushed Calendula with the strained Tea Tree oil and boiled kingsfoil, both the leaves and the water it was heated with. Once carefully mixed together, the slick ointment is a soft green color and smells so clean and bright he takes a moment to just breathe it in. 

Thorin does not sleep through the changing of his bandages this time, starting awake as soon as Bilbo pulls the blanket down so he can get at the bandages. His hand is huge when it catches Bilbo’s wrist, surprising Bilbo so bad he shouts with fright. 

“Good gracious!” he gasps when he looks over to see the sharp blue eyes watching him narrowly, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” his heart gallops in his chest, even as Thorin relaxes and frees his wrist. The heat of his hand is searing and lingers even after the touch itself is gone. 

“Nor I you,” the dwarf grumbles, voice rough with sleep. The fever burns hotter under his skin now than before, making his eyes shine and his breath shallow. Bilbo pats his shoulder comfortingly and starts in on the bandages. 

“I’ve finished the ointment,” he explains as he works, ignoring the way Thorin shifts in discomfort under his hands. Even so, he gentles his touch, “It will draw out the infection and help with the pain,” he holds out the jar with the concoction and Thorin eyes it with sleepy interest. 

“If you think it will work,” he murmurs and Bilbo carefully smears it over the neat lines of stitches. It is cool on his fingertips and draws a soft gasp from Thorin. Immediately Bilbo draws away, “Did I hurt you?” he asks, worried but the dark head shakes a negative and the pale eyes are wide with wonder. 

“No, the opposite. What is in that?” as he speaks, he reaches out and nabs the jar from Bilbo’s hand, ignoring the indignant protest. To get a good whiff, he needs not put his nose up to it and wonder floods his eyes and spreads out into his normally stony face. Bilbo names the herbs used, continuing to dab the ointment onto Thorin’s side until the whole wound is covered, “Are all hobbits a wealth of wonder?” he asks, voice soft and the Almost-smile crinkles around his eyes when he hands the jar of ointment back. Bilbo just huffs a laugh and notes the warmth of the square fingers where they brush his own when he takes back the jar. 

“I wouldn't know. I think you were just lucky to be found by someone who can help you with this particular problem,” he indicates the wound. Thorin gives him a long look, steady and searching and he has to turn away from the intensity of it. To give himself something else to focus on, he re-wraps the wound with clean bandages, making quick work of it. He fastens the end of the bandages so they will stay put and pats one broad shoulder absently. The skin is smooth and warm and he pulls back when sudden temptation clutches at him. Thorin doe not notice, his gaze fixed on the window when Bilbo steps back from the bed, contemplative. He looks tired again, now that the surprise and wonder has faded. 

“Is it luck?” he questions in a voice as far away as his gaze. Confused, Bilbo is about to ask him to expound upon his odd statement when there was a low, steady knocking from the front door. He sighs and catches Thorin’s leery look into the hallway. 

“Let me go deal with that and then I will bring you more tea for the fever. Until then…” A flicker of movement from the window interrupts him and he starts, turns towards it.

And nearly stops breathing.

There, clinging to the edges of the window frame like tar, is a shadow. He knows the sun is still up, if barely, spilling the red light of a sunset over the landscape outside the window but he cannot see it past the darkness. There are no sounds of birds or the wind or other hobbits spilling into the room as they had only moments before and there is a chill in the air that feels sickly and full of dread. 

The shadow watches them, 

“Close the window,” Thorin’s voice rattles him, a low, sharp sound full of warning. But Bilbo wants to go nowhere near the window and he stands frozen in the middle of the room, short of breath and shivering from white hot terror, “Bilbo. Close the window. Now,” he drags in a breath that sounds like a high pitched whine but he finally gets his feet moving. The air around the window has a strange, frozen look to it, like time has stopped. The closer he gets, the strong the feeling of dread gets. Still the shadow crouches and watches, “Hurry,” Thorin is snarling behind him, “Hurry, close it!” 

The last two steps are the worst but then he is there, standing in front of the window. It looks like his window but he can feel the strangeness, like oil on his skin. The shadow still watches, making no move to enter the room and fear chokes him. The feeling is too similar to the strangeness in the woods yesterday and he wants to curl into a ball and hide. But the window must be closed. He does not need Thorin to tell him to know it.

He reaches out, fingers trembling so much he can barely grip the pane and the shadow is there, stretching out over the side of the hill like a blanket of darkness. With a sharp breath, he slams the window shut and throws the lock. 

As soon as he does, the pane rattles in its frame so fiercely, he falls back with a cry, tripping over the foot of the bed and stumbling to the floor. It takes him a moment to realize Thorin is standing, clutching a dagger in his hand and crouching defensively. The rattling does not last long and a moment later silence rings through the room, loud enough to be deafening. Through the glass, he can see the light has returned, the shadow gone but he still feels watched. 

It takes longer for either him or Thorin to move. Waiting and listening lasts an eternity of seconds, chills running like lightning up and down Bilbo’s spine. Finally, Thorin drops his defensive stance, staggering back to sit on the bed. They share a long look, Bilbo’s terrified and Thorin’s dark with foreboding. 

“What was that?” Bilbo finally breathes, shakily picking himself up off the floor. Thorin’s dagger gleams on the sheets in the dull candlelight and he feels ill just looking at it. Where on earth was that hidden?

“I could not even begin to say,” Thorin rumbles, voice heavy, “But it brings to mind the strangeness in the woods.” Bilbo shivers, the conformation making it even worse.

“I thought the same,” his whispers, arms wrapped around himself like he can hug warmth back into himself, “Something isn’t right, is it?” Thorin looks at him, gaze steady and he shrugs, “I mean, this is the second time we saw… and we both witnessed it. It isn’t just some flight of fancy borne of an overactive imagination,” at that the dwarf snorts, though it is not an amused sound. 

“Aye, it is real. And it followed us from the forest. It had the same…” Thorin trails off, like he is unsure of how to finish.

“Presence,” Bilbo supplies helpfully, “darkness, sheer overwhelming terror,” the dwarf twists on the bed, one eyebrow quirked. Bilbo, still shaking in reaction, crosses his arms over his chest and eyes the window, “Well, it’s true.” he thinks Thorin is about to agree but the knocking on his front door starts up again, patient and respectful. Instantly his heart is in his throat and he looks wildly into the hallway. The sound is markedly different from the rattling of the window but it still makes his gut clench with fear. 

“You don’t think…” Bilbo begins and looks over to see that Thorin’s face has a quiet intensity that turns his eyes molten. 

“I know not. It is a strange coincidence but until we understand what is going on, we should regard everything with extra care,” the dwarf’s voice is as intense as his expression. Bilbo holds his arms around himself tighter and hesitates. From the hall he can hear the knocking, beginning to speed up, get anxious and, muffled by a door and distance, Hamfast’s voice calling his name. He wants to sag in relief but the memory of the watchful shadow stays with him.

“It’s Hamfast,” he says, voice wobbly with doubt and he hates the way Thorin just frowns with suspicion. 

“Is it?” and that frightens him too. Only something with great malevolence would use the voice of a friend as a ruse. But he hates the thought of leaving Hamfast out there to the mercy of that same malevolence. He bites his lip and looks between the bedroom doorway and the dwarf. 

“I…how can I tell?” he jerks, making an aborted slashing motion with his hand, “Oh, this is bad, this is very very bad! What do we do, I cannot just leave him out there with that thing!” his voice is high and strangled and he does not realize he has begun to pace until Thorin is standing in front of him, hands on his shoulders to hold him still. The touch is hot but there is no weakness or other evidence of a fever when he looks up into the dwarf’s face. 

“Calm down,” Thorin says, not unkindly, “Panic will only make matters worse. Alright?” he prompts Bildo with a gentle shake and he nods in response, taking a few long, deep breaths. He is much steadier, though he cannot say why. Perhaps it is because Thorin is a solid rock of calm and there is an utter lack of fear in his pale eyes. Thorin nods back and takes a step back, “Good. Now, I cannot say what is happening. I have come across great evil more than once in my lifetime but this is something different entirely,” he eyes the window with distaste. 

“So what do we do, hide and hope it goes away?” he asks sharply because the very idea makes something in him rebel. Thorin growls, a surprising sound that makes Bilbo start. 

“Little fox, the first thing you must know about me after my name is that I never stick my head in the ground and hope the danger passes. If it can be fought, I will fight it and if it cannot, I will try my damnedest to persevere anyway,” passion burns in Thorin’s words, bright and stirring. Bilbo stares at him, shocked and a little bit impressed. Hamfast calls a little louder and even from where he stands, Bilbo can hear the concern in his voice. 

“Alright,” he finally says, quietly, “Alright, let me go look and see if it is really Hamfast. You should…” he pauses, reluctant to leave Thorin alone in the room, even though he is useless against any kind of danger. The dwarf seems to understand his hesitation because the corners of his eyes crinkle and his face warms. 

“I am just fine. It has left us be, for now. Though I think you should close the rest of your windows and lock them for the night,” as he speaks, he moves back to the bed, moving gingerly with one wide hand pressed to his side, “If you would like, you can take my dagger,” he holds it out, a long, wicked blade that makes Bilbo shy away. 

“Ah, thank you but no. I would not know how to use it and will likely do more damage than good,” Thorin snorts a laugh, following it up with a wince and lays back in the bed, face shadowed. Bilbo hesitates a moment longer but the knocks have turned to insistent rings at the bell and if it is Hamfast, he has left his friend standing upon his stoop quite long enough. 

“Coming!” he calls as he hurries down the hallway, the last of the summer afternoon light falling into the entryway in ribbons of reddish gold light. No shadows linger behind the leaded panes but he still takes an extra moment to peer through the little peephole in the door. Hamfast is indeed standing on the stoop, eyebrows furrowed and one hand still hovering near Bilbo’s bell. No shadows lurk and the late afternoon light falls as warmly upon his stoop as it does everywhere else. With a smile pasted carefully on his face, he throws his door open. 

“Sorry about that, Hamfast. Sometimes I don’t hear visitors when I’m in the garden,” he says before Hamfast can even open his mouth and the worry fades into a warm, understanding smile.

“Not to worry, Mister Bilbo, not to worry. I know how tricky it can be. Bell asked me to come by, as it were, to bring you some new bandages. She also sent some bread and scones,” he holds out the basket on his arm, round face sincere and Bilbo feels a stab of guilt. 

“Thank you. She really didn’t have to,” he trails off because the smell of freshly baked bread rises up from under the towel that covers the basket and his stomach enthusiastically reminds him he has yet to eat dinner. Hamfast just waves him away. 

“Now, I told you that help between friends needs not be repaid and I was being serious. We just figured, what with an extra mouth to feed and less time to do some baking, you would need a little something extra for your pantry, if you please,” Bilbo clutches the basket and smiles wanly at Hamfast. 

“You are very kind. Thank you,” they exchange a few more pleasantries before Hamfast turns to head back to his own home, to Bell and dinner. But before he reaches the gate, Bilbo cannot help calling out, “Hamfast!” the other hobbit pauses, face jovial and questioning and it takes Bilbo a moment to work enough saliva into his mouth to ask the question that burns restlessly on his tongue, “Before, when you were knocking on my door, did you happen to notice…that is, did you see anything strange? Out of the ordinary?” Hamfast turns completely to face him, expression falling into confusion. 

“Strange? Strange how, Mister Bilbo?” the wind rustles the bushes in the front garden and it is all he can do not to leap out of his skin. But it is just wind, full of the warm, green scent of summer and he reminds himself to breathe. 

“Shadows, strange feelings?” as soon as he says it, the words out in the warm air, he feels a little foolish. But feeling silly cannot erase the fear nor the hard caution in Thorin’s face when he says they cannot be too careful. The strangeness is real, at least, but he is glad that Hamfast has not had the same experience. 

“Not as such, Mister Bilbo. Are you alright?” Hamfast takes a few steps back towards the door, concerned again. Bilbo smiles as best he can. 

“I’m alright, Hamfast. Maybe I got a little too much sun today, that’s all,” he holds up the basket, “Thank you again! I’ll see you tomorrow,” despite his reassurances, he gets one more concerned glance before Hamfast walks through the front gate and disappears down the lane. Bilbo watches until the familiar figure is long gone, a deep frown lining his face, basket clutched to his chest. No matter how long he stands there, though, nothing strange happens. The dimming light remains steady, the air warm and friendly, the birds twittering their last songs before they hunker down for the night. Fireflies are beginning to sparkle in the lawn and among the leaves of the trees, mirroring the stars that will soon speckle the sky. Somewhere down the lane he can hear children calling to each other, their distant voices bright and happy. 

Just like in the forest, when the darkness disappeared, it is like it has never been. 

Bilbo does not know if that makes the whole situation worse or better. With a shiver, he steps back into the entryway and closes the door with a soft sound of finality. And then he throws the bolt for good measure. It has been many long years since he saw his father do that. The memory brings chills to his spine. The last time the front door needed to be locked was during the Fell Winter, when wolves and ice scratched at the door, the bloodthirsty howls like omens of death. For some hobbits, they had been more than warnings. 

Bilbo stares at the lock a moment, breath clotted thickly at the back of his throat and can only turn away when he hears a shuffle behind him. 

Thorin stands in the entrance to the hallway, leaning heavily against the wall and clutching the wicked dagger in his fist. His eyes are dark and hooded and his lips pale. Bilbo sighs at the sight, ignoring the rapid thumping of his heart. 

“It was only Hamfast. You should be in bed, not wandering around my house,” that earns him a heavy, complicated look he cannot sort through. With a shrug that looks painful, the dwarf loosens his hold on his dagger but he stays where he is, unsteady and listing against the hallway opening. 

“You were quiet for too long,” he does not say he was worried but the sentiment comes through anyway. Bilbo hides a smile behind a cough. 

“We were gifted with freshly baked bread and scones,” he says with bright optimism that he does not feel but he likes the way Thorin’s face lights up at the prospect of food, “I’ll make you some more of that tea and I’ll bring dinner in with me,” he’ll probably need to drag in the small table from the hall by the den but he does not fancy the idea of eating alone tonight. Thorin nods and turns back toward the guest room. But then he pauses, looking at Bilbo over his shoulder, long curls throwing odd shadows around his eyes and in the hollows of his cheeks. 

“Mister Baggins, do not forget a single window or door when you are locking up,” his warning hangs in the air as he turns away and disappears deeper into the smial. Bilbo clutches the basket and shivers. 

Thorin did not need to remind him; the thrill of fear is still real even though the shadow is long gone. 

Before he does anything else, he goes through his house, closing and locking the windows. Yet even after the last window is tightly sealed and the lock on the back door that leads to his garden bolted, the sliver of cold fear stays buried in his heart. And no amount of lit candles and stoked fireplaces can chase away the sudden chill. 

———————-

At the far end of the Shire, near the twisting western bank of the Brandywine river, three hobbit children run through a field of grass and wildflowers, chasing after the flickering lights of fireflies. Their laughter is like honey, sweet music filling the air and their small hands grasp at the air, more often missing their intended targets than not. Overhead the sky is dark, a velvety dark blue, studded with stars like spilled diamonds. Further away is the rushing sound of the river, though the children stay clear of the water. Each one of them have been told enough stories of hobbits drowning in its dark depths to have been properly scared away. 

And anyway, it is the fireflies they are after and there are enough of those in the fields. 

“Dirah, I’m getting hungry!” calls one of the children, the smallest of the group, with long, curly hair the color of honey. She pauses in the chase, her skirts swirling around her ankles in the breeze. Her two companions, both taller and darker, pause as well. The tallest, a boy with a grass stain high on his shoulder and eyes that are sharp even in the darkness, props his fists up on his hips. 

“Come on, Milly, we only need a couple more,” he gestures to the jar the last child holds, already glowing softly with the light of a dozen fireflies. 

“Why?” the girl whines, “We already have plenty and it’s probably past dinner time by now. Mama’s going to be angry at us,” the boy sighs but relents, taking the jar from the other boy. 

“Aww, come on, Dirah, why do you always give in to her?” Milly huffs, short arms crossed moodily over her chest but Dirah just shrugs, unswayed by his friend. 

“Because she’s usually right. It is past dinner time and I know your mama will switch you good if you come back as late as last time, Toff,” Milly giggles and ignores the way Toff glares at her, now his turn to be in a huff. 

“You always have to ruin everything,” the boy mutters but falls silent under the eldest’s hard look. They turn back towards the lights of town as a group, Dirah accepting Milly’s offered hand with the stoic resignation of an older sibling. The prospect of dinner quickens their steps, the long grasses swishing against their legs and the jar glowing softly in Dirah’s free hand. 

One of them never makes it to the road. 

From the darkness, out of the river, maybe, or from the deep shadows of the trees at the far end of the fields, rises a deeper shadow. It consumes any light, sucks away the glow from all the fireflies it swallows and blots out the light of the stars. The sounds of crickets and other humming night bugs are silenced until the fields are utterly silent. Drawn to the carefree laughter of children, it stalks them through the grass. It makes no noise as it rises over their heads, hungry, so hungry. 

It takes the boy, the smaller one who is not connected by hand to the others. Everything around him goes dark and quiet and he is entirely alone, his friends no longer in front of him. He thinks, as he calls and calls, he hears them crying out his name but he cannot see them. All he knows is darkness. 

Dirah, clever boy that he is, notices when the field goes quiet, though he is at first unaware of why he notices. But he does realize he can no longer hear Toff swishing through the grass behind him and he turns to face a wall of darkness. A wall with teeth and a face more terrible than anything he has seen even in his nightmares. Toff is gone and so are the stars and the lights of the fireflies. 

He does not scream. Instead he shoves Milly towards the road, yells at her to run, run do not look back. 

He cannot run because the oozing darkness has caught his ankle and he stares up into the towering darkness with tears in his eyes but defiance in his heart. Milly he can hear weeping but she is doing as she was told, running as fast as her little legs can take her. Fear claws at him, fear that turns his breath to ice but he does not want to be swallowed up like Toff. So Dirah takes the jar of fireflies that beat uselessly at the glass with their wings and throws it as hard as he can at the terrible face. 

There is a snarl and the sound of shattering glass and then Dirah is free. 

He takes off, sobs caught in his throat, racing after his sister as fast as he can. Even if he thinks about what has become of Toff, he cannot bear to turn around and look. 

If he did, though, he would see that the field is just a field, stars glittering in the sky, cold and distant, fireflies beginning to flicker and dance about the bobbing grasses and flowers. 

All that is left is a broken jar and a small boy with dark hair lying in the grass, his open eyes empty.


	3. Something Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is an invitation, a letter, little blue flowers and some yelling. Also, Thorin reads bedtime stories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your comments. They keep me motivated and excited to write more for the story. Hugs and kisses all around!

The news is all over the Shire by mid-morning. 

Unlike the gossip about Bilbo Baggins and his mysterious dwarven guest, this is of a much darker tone. When hobbits discuss it it is not behind secretive hands and spoken with sly smiles. It is not to fulfill the hungry need for a bit of news, of a story to spread with glee and speculation. No, not today. Today the news spreads with sadness and grief, with muffled cries of shock and low murmurs of sympathy. One thing can be said for hobbits; when it comes to spreading the news of a tragic death, especially one of their own, their glee turns to grief and their hunger for gossip becomes empathy. It is worse because it is the death of a child.

Young Drogo brings the news, big eyes sad as he stands on Bilbo’s doorstep. Bilbo knows as soon as he opens the door something is wrong. 

“What happened?” he asks as way of greeting, fearing the darkness that clouds his cousin’s face. Usually Drogo is a cheerful hobbit, not even of age and full of vibrancy. He is Bilbo’s favorite cousin on the Baggins side of the family, mostly because he is one of the few that has not let the well-standing Baggins name go to his head. But today he does not greet Bilbo with a smile. In fact, Drogo looks like he is about to cry. 

“Hello cousin,” he says politely, voice soft and his hands visibly tremble at his side. In one fist he clutches a red envelope that Bilbo quite despairs of, now probably wrinkled beyond repair. 

“Drogo,” Bilbo says gently, pressing one hand down on his cousin’s shoulder. The dark head rises a fraction and Drogo is biting his lip so hard the skin around the teeth is white. Bilbo sighs, “Come in, lad, I’ll make you some tea,” his cousin nods and follows him meekly into his smial, fingers still clutching at the envelope. When he closes the door behind them, he shuts out the dreary, overcast day, cutting off the grey light before it can creep into his house. Inside the wall sconces have been lit and the chandelier in the entry way spills warm light to fight off the cold, thin light of the day. 

He bustles his cousin into the kitchen and presses him into a chair before going through the familiar motions of making tea. When he sets out a plate with several of Bell Gamgee’s scones, the few that are left from breakfast, Drogo shows no interest. He sits slumped at the table, shoulders rounded and dark head bowed. Heart heavy and dreading to hear the reason that has gotten his normally vivacious cousin so glum, he pulls a chair close and leans forward. 

“Drogo. What happened? Is everything alright at home?” a nod, “Is it your grandfather? I know he was sick,” another nod and a sniff. Bilbo winces when a sleeve is drawn over his cousin’s wet nose. The small niggling fear he felt when he first saw Drogo’s face deepens and he thinks of a lurking shadow and windows trembling violently in their panes. 

“Grandpa Bolger is better,” is the slow reply and Bilbo offers over his handkerchief when Drogo sniffles again. The kettle screeches on the stove, the sound making his start and he hurries over to quiet it. It would not do to wake Thorin. Last time he poked his head into the guest room, the dwarf was asleep, fitful though it was. Despite Bilbo’s care and tea and ointment, the fever had spiked overnight and he had ended up dozing at the bedside all night. Every time he awoke, with a snort and a sore neck, he would fetch cold, clean water and try to cool off Thorin’s burning skin with a dampened cloth. Fatigue pulls at his limbs even now, though he suspects if he had tried to sleep in his own room last night, he would have been awake all night with terror. 

At least Thorin’s presence in the same room allowed for a couple hours in unconsciousness. Safety in numbers, he supposes. 

The window never rattled again and the stars sparkled clear as a reflection on a still lake all through the night. Every time he caught sight of them when he started awake, he felt a little better. So much so, by the time the clouds moved in close to dawn, he did not panic. At least, not much. 

“Here,” he says now, placing a steaming cup of tea in front of his cousin upon the table, the aroma of it warming the air, “perhaps this will help a little bit.” His voice is kind and the tea hot and after a few sips, his cousin seems to breathe a little easier. Bilbo waits impatiently, knee jiggling under the table, “Can you tell me what has you so depressed?” Drogo nods and sniffs one more time. 

“Toffney Brown was found dead in a field by the river this morning,” he says slowly, voice soft and Bilbo is glad he is sitting. If he was not, he thinks he would have fallen. 

“What?” the word is more of a breath than a sound. The death of a fauntling is not unheard of, of course. At least one child is lost to the slow current of the river a summer and in a world where hobbits are so much smaller than most other races, evil has been known to steal away a careless child roaming too close to the edges of the Shire. But that is even more rare than a drowning. Indeed, usually it is a fever or sickness that steals in like a thief and takes a child away. For all of that, the loss of a youngling is felt by everyone. Drogo nods at his question, taking another bracing sip of tea. 

“He didn’t drown, either. They don’t know what happened. I heard…” he swallows thickly before continuing, “I heard that Dirah and Milly Bracegirdle were with him when it happened but Milly won’t talk and Dirah keeps babbling about the night eating Toff whole. No one knows what that means,” when he puts his cup down onto the saucer, it rattles a little. Bilbo barely notices. He has gone cold all over. 

“The night swallowed him?” he repeats, voice weak but if Drogo notices how his words waver, he does not react. Instead he sighs sadly and finishes off the tea. 

“Yes, that’s what mother said. Said the Bracegirdle children came tearing back home last night and those are the only words they can get out of Dirah,” in that moment, Bilbo envies his cousin his ignorance. He wishes he too had no idea about the shadow and the dread that came visiting last night. The very idea that it killed a child makes his blood feel like ice in his veins. He does not know for sure it is the same but it is too great a coincidence. Suddenly he wishes he had not indulged in that extra scone at breakfast. Bile prickles the back of his throat with hot acid. Finally, after several tries and thick swallows, he manages to find his voice again. 

“That’s…how horrible. Poor boy,” he wishes he had his own bracing cup of tea but he only made some for his cousin. There is a moment of silence that is only broken by the crackle of the fire. Outside a lonely mockingbird croons a melancholy song and his heart aches at the sound. Finally the quiet becomes too heavy, “Did you bring other news with you, cousin?” Drogo looks at him for a moment then realizes he still holds the sad letter in his fist. Flushing, he puts it on the table and tries to smooth it down. 

“Um, yes, mother sent me to give you this. It’s Dora’s birthday party next week,” ah yes. Bilbo chastises himself for forgetting. He used to be so good at remembering his cousins’ birthdays. All of them, even the ones on the Took side. Gently prying the invitation from Drogo’s restless fingers, he flicks it open and pulls out the neat, decorative card. The ink is gold and the flowers drawn at the corners soft pinks and yellows. It has all the proper trappings for a coming-of-age invite. Oh dear. 

“Of course,” he gives Drogo a small smile, “I’ll be there, naturally.” Poor Dora. Her coming of age marred by the death of a young child. The funeral will be only days before the party and that is what she will remember for the rest of her life. A surge of pity overtakes him but it is quickly squashed by dread. There may not even be a party at this rate. Not if the shadow continues to lurk within the Shire’s borders. 

“Is it true?” Drogo’s sudden question makes him look up in surprise. There is curiosity in his cousin’s gaze and he looks a little less sombre.

“Is what true?” he asks, glad for the change. It is only until his cousin’s wide gaze flickers to the doorway that leads to the hall that he realizes what Drogo is asking. Bilbo barely contains a sigh. 

“That there’s a dwarf in your house? Did you really drag him back to the Shire by his legs and leave a trail of blood on the road?” Shocked, Bilbo gapes at his cousin. 

“What? Where in Yavanna’s name did you hear that nonsense?” he demands, voice sharp. Drogo looks at him, guilt turning his mouth down, “Goodness, lad, you know you should not believe every little bit of nonsense that you hear. Yes, there is a dwarf recovering in my guest room. No, I did not drag him here. Honestly,” he shakes his head as he stands, snatching away the empty tea cup from under Drogo’s nose. The china rattles threateningly when he puts it in the sink and the sound is harsh in the quiet of the kitchen. Bilbo immediately feels bad and he turns back with a long sigh, “I found him in the woods,” he explains in a quieter voice, “where he had been inured and robbed. I could not just leave him there so I helped him back here. Jeb Longbottom kindly gave us a ride and there was no blood trail,” his cousin nods, understanding, though he drinks in the story with relish. Well, at least when Drogo goes and tells his friends, the story will be a little closer to the truth.

“And he didn’t threaten to crack Fenny Bolger’s head open with his teeth for just staring?” he asks and it is all Bilbo can do not to smash his head against the wall. This is the reason he hates gossip. Because it twists and curls and turns in on itself until it becomes an unrecognizable monster rampaging through the countryside, completely out of control. 

“Thorin is a perfectly civilized dwarf and has been the consummate guest, during the moments he is even lucid. No one’s head was threatened and Fenny Bolger better be careful or I will be the one threatening the well-being of his head!” Bilbo practically shouts the last part and Drogo laughs behind his hands, eyes scrunched in mirth. 

“I thought that last bit might be a stretch,” his cousin chuckles, finally reaching out to pluck a scone from the plate by his elbow. Bilbo is glad to see him feeling a little better. 

“Probably because it was Fenny Bolger who said it,” he quips and his cousin snorts around a mouthful of scone. And for a few minutes, everything feels almost normal. Of course they do not forget about Toffney but laughing together at his kitchen table is familiar. Comforting. By the time Drogo takes his leave, Bilbo does not feel like he will break with tension. He can tell, as they walk back to the door, that his cousin would like nothing more than to sneak a peek at this mysterious dwarf hiding away in Bag End but the very idea makes Bilbo uncomfortable. Thorin is not some exhibit to be gawked at. He does not deserve to have curious eyes staring at him while tales are spun behind his back. Something else in him, something less protective and more possessive, does not want them to see that Almost-smile or the sadness that lurks in those blue eyes. But mostly he feels like his neighbors and his family start chipping away pieces of Thorin to feed their gossip, there will be nothing of Thorin left. 

He does not examine why he is so strangely protective of the dwarf, of course. That way only lies madness. 

Instead he sees his cousin off with a soft, “Tell your mother I’ll be by later this week with the clippings she asked for,” and then adds, “Be careful, okay?” because the overcast sky has reminded him of grey shadows and death lurking in fields. Drogo flashes him a look over his shoulder as he walks through the gate but Bilbo cannot tell if it is meant to be reassuring. 

When he closes the door again, his heart is once again uneasy. 

Something sinister has come to the Shire, that much is clear. A shadow that does more than just rattle windows, it seems. Bilbo wishes he could ask someone for advice but the only other person who knows anything about the shadow is Thorin and he does not seem to know very much at all. He remembers his mother telling him tales about a tall, grey wizard, remembers fireworks on a warm summer night, remembers a big beard, a pointy hat and blue eyes that twinkle. A wizard would know, would he not? But it has been so many years since Gandalf was even last seen in the Shire that Bilbo barely has a memory of him. Just a name and tales and no way to get in touch with him. There is no one else he can think of who would have the foggiest idea of what is happening. 

Perhaps, he thinks, Thorin might know someone from where he lives or from his travels who could help them. He resolves to ask him when the dwarf wakes up. 

He washes the teacup and saucer blankly, going through the motions without truly paying attention. Then he sweeps the floor in the kitchen and the entryway, puts away the stack of books that have accumulated in the sitting room, and then stokes up the fire in each room with a fireplace. Bag End, as expansive as it is, has one in both sitting rooms, the kitchen and study, and in each of the bedrooms. They come in handy in the winter or on days like these where the summer has been chased away by clouds and gloom. By the time he makes his way to the guest room and the last fireplace, a gentle rain has begun to fall outside, tapping softly at the windows. The sound is soothing, though the darkness that comes with it is not. 

He is happily surprised when he opens the guest room door softly and finds Thorin awake and sitting up. His eyes are clear when they settle on Bilbo, gleaming in the dim light. Relief floods through him. He had be truly afraid last night, of the fire that had settled under Thorin’s skin. 

“Good morning,” he says, leaving the fire be for a moment and moving to the bed, “Your fever spiked pretty high overnight. How are you feeling?” on the bedside table he has left a pitcher of water and a glass, which he fills now. When he hands it over, Thorin’s fingers rasp gently against his own. They are cool and calloused, the fingernails blunt and square. The dwarf nods his thanks. 

“I feel much better,” Thorin responds after drinking the entire glass of water in a few quick gulps. When Bilbo offers him more water, he nods, “It seems you have a talent for healing,” the blue eyes watch him, the Almost-smile crinkling at the edges of them. Flustered, Bilbo takes back the empty glass a second time and turns to stoke up the fire like he originally intended. 

“Oh, I wouldn’t go quite that far,” he blusters, poking at what is left of the timber in the grate before adding a few more logs. The fire spits and blazes bright for a moment before settling again, “Just lucky I know a few things about plants.” There is a snort from the bed and he turns to see Thorin shaking his head. 

“That is no small thing, especially for those of us who have no talent with green, growing things,” he gives a small shrug, small enough not to jar his ribs, “You would do best not to discredit yourself, Master Baggins. I would be in a bad way, I think, if not for you intervention,” the admission is as much a thank you as it is a statement and Bilbo feels something warm grow in his chest. Heat rises up from under his collar and he clasps his hands behind his back, inexplicably pleased. The knowing look Thorin sends his way does not help in any way. 

“Are there no gardeners among dwarves?” he asks because he needs to change the subject before his blush reaches his ears, “Or healers?” Thorin finally looks away, picking at the blanket draped over his knees. 

“Aye, there are healers. We see too much conflict and there is often a need for them. As far as I know, their studies are based on anatomy and using the body to heal itself. They use herbs when they need them, of course. But dwarves are not as prone to infection and sickness as men nor are we born surrounded by gardens like elves,” he gives Bilbo a slow considering eye, “Or apparently like hobbits.” Fascinated despite himself with the differences in the races, he sits on the chair beside the bed. 

“I do suppose a dwarf toiling in a garden would be a sight, wouldn’t it,” he says with a small laugh and the Almost-smile turns into a small, lopsided grin. He likes the way it lights up Thorin’s sky-colored eyes and how the white of his teeth flash behind his short, dark beard. 

“Indeed. I would fear for the well being of the flowers if I ever saw the sight. Most of the dwarves I know would sooner trample them than care for them,” he pauses like he is deeply considering something, “Though, I have known a few to wear flowers in their hair like decoration,” Bilbo outright laughs at this, trying to picture this gruff dwarf willingly wearing daisies in his hair. He finds he cannot picture it at all. 

“Really?” he snickers and gets another one of those lopsided smiles. 

“Maybe one or two,” Thorin allows and Bilbo suddenly feels giddy with mirth. 

“But not you, of course.” The statement turns Thorin thoughtful and he stifles another laugh as the dwarf makes a show of stroking his beard in thought. But the twinkle in his eye gives him away. 

“I think I could be persuaded, as long as they are very nice flowers,” he lifts one dark eyebrow as if daring Bilbo to argue, who snorts another laugh. The ridiculousness of the banter strikes him, before he realizes he and Thorin are joking with one another. How odd it is, he thinks, when they are nearly strangers that he can be so easy in Thorin’s presence. Bilbo cannot remember when he laughed with other hobbits in such a manner, never mind a dwarf he has only known for two and a half days. With clouds making the sky grim and rain streaking down the window panes, this comfortable interaction is most welcome. 

“You would look very fine with clematis flowers, I think. Something blue,” he aims for teasing but his words made the smile fade from Thorin’s face. He looks steadily at Bilbo for a moment, long enough that Bilbo begins to think he has overstepped. 

“Why do you say that?” the dwarf finally asks, once Bilbo’s ears are tipped with a hot red blush. He fidgets in his chair, wishing he had never said anything. 

“Your, um, your eyes,” he manages, so flustered, he wants to sink into the ground, “They are a very astonishing shade of blue. I just thought…” he trails off when he see that the smile is back, curling at the edges of Thorin’s lips and making his eyes crinkle. 

“It’s alright, I was just curious. To me, to dwarves, some colors are tied to long bloodlines. Mine happens to be blue,” seeing that Thorin is not angry, Bilbo practically sags in his seat, face burning for a different reason. Looking back on it, he realizes how it might have sounded, waxing poetic about blue flowers matching even bluer eyes. But if the dwarf thinks the same, he keeps it to himself. Instead Thorin just watches him and his smile has twisted into a smirk, “Although, I do not know that flower you named. I will have to just take your word for it.” Bilbo gives a laugh that is both embarrassed and amused. 

“Well, I have plenty in my garden. Once the rain stops, I can bring some in for you,” he feels a little shy saying it, though he does not understand why. He has given flowers to a great many people and never felt shy about it. Thorin, though, is looking out the window, watching the rain fall. 

“An ill omen,” he whispers to himself, shifting himself on the bed and then his face crumples on a wince. Bilbo, unthinkingly, reaches out a hand and presses it to one broad shoulder in an attempt to still the sudden restless movement. The dwarf starts, his skin cool and smooth but while he looks sharply at the hobbit, he does not throw off the touch. Even so, Bilbo pulls his hand back quickly.

“Sorry I just. I should change your bandages. If you don’t mind,” Thorin just sets his lips in a thin line and nods. Practically scrambling, Bilbo goes about undoing the bandages. All the while, the sharp blue eyes watch him, as they always do. As he works, wiping gently around the wound with a clean rag before reapplying the ointment, he thinks about what Thorin said about the rain, “Do dwarves believe rain is a bad sign?” he asks conversationally, closing up the ointment jar and wrapping up the wound again. The dwarf tilts his head, long curls sliding over his shoulder with the movement. 

“I suppose. It is always something one of my mentors always used to say, though I have usually found that rain is just rain,” Bilbo smiles at the wry tone in the deep voice, tying off the bandages with a flourish. 

“Well, to a gardener like myself, rain is a blessing. Things cannot grow without water,” he steps back and smiles. He smiles because he does not want to think that maybe Thorin is correct this time. That the rain is a sign something bad is about to happen. Something bad has already happened, he reminds himself a moment later. He takes a breath and gathers the used bandages so he can bring them to the kitchen to be cleaned, “Would you like some lunch? You slept straight through breakfast again.” Thorin huffs but his stomach growls before he can say anything. The disgruntled look on his face makes Bilbo laugh, “Alright then, I’ll be right back.” With that, he scoots out of the room, running through the food in his pantry in his head and settling on a nice trout and leek soup. Something warm on this cool, dreary summer day. And the bread Bell sent over yesterday, he thinks, beautifully crusty on the outside and soft on the inside. There is some nice butter left, the sweet one that had been churned with honey. The very thought makes his mouth water and stomach grumble nearly as loudly as Thorin’s had. 

Bilbo goes about preparing lunch, cleaning and poaching the fish then staring on the base for the soup, using thick cream and chives and the pretty white mushrooms he found last week on a walk. He is cutting up the leeks, humming under his breath as he does, when there’s a scuffle in the doorway at his back. With a shout, he whips around and unthinkingly throws the cooking knife in the direction of the sound, heart clogging his throat. 

Only to find Thorin standing there, eyes wide and Bilbo’s little knife at his feet. 

They stare at each other for a long moment before the dwarf gives the knife a wry glance. Immediately Bilbo feels sheepish, heat rising to his cheeks even while his hands shake and his breath runs too fast. 

“Jumpy little fox, aren’t you?” Thorin slowly squats to pick the knife up and it is laughably small in his hands. Bilbo hides his face in his hands, too embarrassed to even look at his house guest. Whom he just threw a knife at. Oh, his mother would have a thing or two to say if she could see him now. Fear, he thinks in her voice, is no excuse to be throwing good cooking knives around the kitchen. And at company no less!

“I’m so sorry!” he moans into his palms, peeking at Thorin through his fingers, “I never even heard you come down the hall and I thought…” Thorin arches an eyebrow, through he looks more bemused than upset, “It doesn’t matter what I thought, that’s no excuse for throwing things at you,” here the dwarf snorts, stepping into the kitchen so he can hand the knife back. Bilbo takes it reluctantly. Thorin has put his tunic back on, though it hangs loose about his frame, dark blue material covering the white bandages and his bare shoulders, the latter of which Bilbo is stupidly grateful for. The why will be examined at a later date. 

“It’s alright, no harm done. I see now why you refused my dagger last night, though,” his lips quirk up as he says it but Bilbo is less than amused. He turns back to the counter, diligently washing his knife so he can use it again. Thorin is quiet behind him for a moment before he hears the sound of a chair on the tiles. Bilbo does not have to look to know the dwarf has taken a seat at his table instead of going back to the guest room. For some reason, he feels better for the company. When he does glance over his shoulder after pushing the neatly chopped leeks into the bubbling soup base, he finds Thorin running a thick finger of the edge of the invitation Bilbo had left sitting on the table. Before he can think of something to say to break the silence, the dwarf twists the invitation around and pierces him with a steady gaze. 

“Did you sleep in the chair next to my bed last night for the same reason you were startled into throwing a knife at me?” Bilbo expects Thorin to be teasing but his expression stays serious. He does not know how to respond at first. Because he was scared of the shadow and did not wish to sleep alone in case it returned? It seems like an obvious answer. But he remembers that the dwarf was not afraid. Not the way Bilbo had been. He turns away, back to the stove so he can escape the heavy weight of Thorin’s eyes and hunts for an answer as he moves the trout from the pan to cut into small chunks for the soup.

“I do not know what kind of life you are used to, Mister Thorin, but I can assure you we do not see these kinds of things in the Shire. Not since the Fell Winter and at least wolves can be killed,” he pushes the pieces of fish into the soup and puts a lid on the pot so it can simmer for a little while. When he turns back to the table, he finds the piercing blue gaze has turned both thoughtful and sombre, “My cousin came by this morning,” he continues when Thorin remains silent, “to bring me an invitation for his sister’s birthday party next week. And he told me a young child was killed last night, his body left in a field. The two children he was with said he was swallowed by the night,” he shudders and turns his head away, heart heavy, “So forgive me for being a little jumpy. Though I will try to refrain from throwing any more sharp objects at you.” Bilbo tries for some dry humor but it falls flat when Thorin returns the look with a stony face. 

“I did not say you should not be,” the dwarf says then looks away, face hard. “A child killed, you say?” he bows his head, dark hair sliding down to cover his face. He looks old, suddenly, with shadows deepening the lines about his eyes and around his strong nose, “And I brought it here. It is killing children and all because it followed me here,” the harshness in his voice surprises Bilbo and he hurries to pull out his own chair, setting himself in front of Thorin. 

“No, don’t,” he snatches one thick wrist and presses his fingers hard into the soft skin he finds on the underside. Thorin peers at him through his hair, “It followed both of us. I was there too, remember? And it is neither of our faults. How could we have stopped it even if we knew?” he speaks the words for his own benefit was well as Thorin’s because he needs to hear them. It is easy to feel guilty, when tragedy strikes. His mother did when his father died and he remembers his own guilt over Belladonna’s death for not trying hard enough to keep her here. 

“Even so…” Thorin starts then grunts when Bilbo digs his nails into the tender skin of his wrist. Strangely enough, the dwarf does not pull his hand away. 

“Even so, there is nothing either of us could have done about it,” they stare at one another for a long moment before Thorin nods sharply. Bilbo lets go of his wrist, satisfied for now, though the seriousness of the moment does not dissipate. He looks out the window over the sink, following the drip and patter of the rain, “If it is killing people, though…” Though what? He knows if he tries to go around and warn everyone, most will write him off. Mad Baggins is at it again, this time spreading stories about shadows that eat children! He winces. 

“I might know someone I can contact, someone who may know a little more about what is happening,” Thorin’s voice pulls him out of his musings and he looks at his guest with a tiny bubble of hope in his chest, “May know, mind. Balin used to be an…advisor of sorts but he did study a lot of lore. Still does, in fact, when he gets the chance. If anyone will know, it would be him. I just need a way to send a letter to Erid Luin.” A sliver of hope is better than no hope at all and Bilbo feels that little bubble grow. 

“Alright. I will bring you a pen and paper when we are done eating,” he amends. It is better than nothing. Better than sitting around and waiting to see what this shadow will devour next. Thorin still looks pinched and angry but he accepts his bowl of soup with a grunt of thanks and eats it with quiet gusto. Over the top of his own bowl, Bilbo discreetly watches the way thick fingers break crusty slices of break and dip it into the soup, the way Thorin chews absently, the way he has to keep pushing his hair from his face so it does not dip into his food. Silver flashes in his ears, hidden again just as quickly as it appears. When Bilbo finally looks away, he realizes how glad he is that he pulled Thorin from those woods. Despite everything else, whatever evil that came back with them, he finds that maybe he likes this dwarf just a little bit. 

Just a little.

————————-

They finish lunch in silence and by the time the letter to this Balin is finished and addressed, the rain has stopped and the clouds are beginning to break apart. Though still weak from the fever, Thorin asks if he could wash. 

“I have been wallowing in my own sweat and blood for much too long,” he says with a wry twist to his mouth. Bilbo cannot blame him. Between the dirt from the road, his injury and the fever, Thorin must feel grimy at best. He shows him to the bathing room, right next to the water closet, and turns on the tap to get the hot water running.    
“I will see if I can find clothes that may fit you for the time being so yours can be washed,” he says as he steps out of the room, hoping his father kept a shirt or two from great Uncle Mondo. Uncle Mondo had a great passion for cakes and by the time he passed, his waistline showed it. Abundantly, “Just don’t get your bandages wet,” he warns and Thorin rolls his eyes. 

“This is not the first time I have done this, Little Fox,” is the amused response and the door shuts in Bilbo’s face. He grumbles as he walks away and sets to the task of finding something for Thorin to wear, which turns into something of a quest. It has been many years since he bothered to even dust the chests of clothes in the spare closet at the end of the hall and he is sneezing and huffing by the time he finds the one he was looking for. Hobbit clothes are not made to fit dwarves, with their huge builds, shoulders and chests the size of rock slabs, arms like tree trunks and thighs…Bilbo stops himself with a horrified gasp. 

“Bilbo Baggins, what on earth has gotten into you?” he hisses to himself in the gloom of the hall and drags the chest out from under a pile of neatly folded blankets with furious vigor, “He is a guest and you barely know him. Pull it together,” he gives his cheeks a sharp pat that sends up a plume of dust and which makes him choke. But he sets to the chest with determination and finally comes up with a soft yellow linen shirt three sizes too big for himself and a pair of fine velvet breeches the color of midnight that may actually fit Thorin. Let it not be said that Uncle Mondo did not dress himself well. 

And if he thinks admirably of Thorin’s figure, he decides as he puts everything back in its place and makes for a more well-used part of the smial, it is because the dwarf is just so different than a hobbit. Naturally Bilbo would be intrigued.

He leaves the clothes folded up in front of the bathing room door and retreats back to the guest room to strip the bed and put clean sheets on it. There is no use for Thorin to get clean only to climb back onto dirty sheets. He leaves them on the floor by the door and will take them along with Thorin’s tunic and trousers and anything else to the washing tub out back. By the time he is finished, room neat, he has time to make a round through his garden, checking to make sure everything withstood the rain. The sun bobs and weaves behind big, puffy clouds and the air is sweet and damp. Each of his flowers greets him with glistening petals and bright, happy colors and he greets them back with gentle strokes and soft words. There is no sign of trouble and, before returning inside, he takes a couple clippings of clematis flowers with him, their velvety petals a deep, royal blue. 

Thorin is back in the guest room when Bilbo returns, sitting rigidly on his bed and staring at a hair brush in his hands. He wears clothes Bilbo had left for him, the shirt big enough on him a strong breeze up underneath the hem could lift him straight off his feet. Bilbo bites his lip at the sight and vows to get Thorin’s clothes clean as soon as possible. It is not until he is setting the flowers he had clipped into a little crystal vase on the bedside table that he notices the dark brows are knitted together. 

“Is everything alright?” he asks softly, noting the way the dark curls hang wet over the broad shoulders, dampening his borrowed shirt. Thorin makes a gesture with his hand at the hair brush, visibly upset. 

“I need to fix my hair but…I cant lift my arms up enough to even brush it out,” the sound he makes is harsh with frustration and Bilbo feels a wave of sympathy. Without thinking, he takes a step forward, hand out. It seems such a simple thing, to offer steady hands to at least brush out Thorin’s curls. 

“I could, if you—” but before he can even finish, the dwarf recoils like he has been struck, eyes sharp and narrow. 

“No!” Thorin’s voice is harsh, his voice almost a bellow and Bilbo halts, eyes huge. Hurt and wildly confused, he backs away from the bed. Immediately Thorin looks contrite, rubbing the fingers of his free hand on the velvet of the borrowed trousers in a nervous pattern, “I’m sorry, that was uncalled for,” he pauses, peering at Bilbo with a guilty turn to his lips, “I should not have yelled. Dwarves do not…not just anyone is permitted to touch our hair. To braid another’s hair and beard is an honor saved for close family members and lovers.” Understanding floods him and he feels terribly embarrassed. What an impropriety he had almost just committed!

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t…” Thorin waves off his flustered apology, the Almost-smile crinkling warmly at the corners of his eyes. 

“Of course you didn’t know. And I should not expect you to know dwarven culture,” he looks mournfully at the hairbrush and sets it to the side. Then he does something that surprises Bilbo. He lifts his arms as far as he can and pulls all of his hair into a rough braid, wincing a little as he does. Bilbo watches, biting his lip and feeling decidedly useless. Thorin ties the mass off with a leather thong from around his wrist and the plait falls thick and heavy over his shoulder. When he looks back at Bilbo, his face seems softer no longer surrounded by the wild fall of black and silver curls. The sight makes him feel inexplicably hot around the collar and he turns away, too aware of the way the pale blue eyes follow his movements. 

“So, I am going to bring your letter to the post. You should rest. You were prescribed at least a few days of bed rest, if I recall,” Thorin snorts a laugh but he does not argue. His face is lined and tired looking, smudges under his eyes returned. Bilbo gathers the sheets still piled by the door but is caught by Thorin’s voice before he can step into the hallway. The dwarf is laying back on the pillows when he glances back, dark braid stretched out next to him like a rope. 

“Are those the flowers you were talking about?” his eyes are on the small vase on the bedside table and the cluster of bright blue flowers. Bilbo tips his head to the side. 

“Yes. They are called clematis,” he responds quietly and Thorin nods. His eyes do not leave the vase, “I’ll be back soon,” Bilbo says before he walks from the room but he does not think the dwarf hears him. Softly, almost too softly for him to understand, he hears Thorin mutter,    
“Durin blue flowers,” and there is wonder in his voice. Bilbo clutches the sheets a little tighter and wonders why the name Durin sounds so familiar. 

————————-

The delivery of the letter to the post takes no more than a half an hour, as the post Master’s office is down the lane and in the Shire proper. 

Sunlight spills over the green countryside, broken here and there by thin, puffy clouds, which are all that is left of the morning rain storm. Hamfast waves at him from his own garden, cutting sheers in his hands and a straw hat shading his face. 

“Afternoon, Mr. Bilbo!” he calls and Bilbo stops with a smile. Discreetly, he tucks the letter into his waistcoat pocket, telling himself he is not ready to answer questions just yet. He has no answers with which to satisfy them. 

“Hello, Hamfast,” he answers when the other hobbit comes to greet him at the gate, “Thank you again for the food yesterday. It was delicious and I know a dwarf who would like to express his gratitude to both you and Bell,” his friend beams at him, taking his hat off so he can wipe away the sweat that has gathered under his brim, flattening his golden curls. 

“He’s awake then? Aye, that is good news. Best bit of news I have heard all day,” Bilbo bites his lip and nods when Hamfast’s face grows solemn. 

“Yes. I know, Drogo came by this morning and told me about Toffney Brown,” something sharp burns through him and before he can stop to think about it, he catches Hamfast’s arm in a hard grip. Big brown eyes blink at him in surprise.

“Mr. Bilbo?” he shakes his head and glances down the lane to see if anyone is watching. But the Shire is quiet today. It would be, after the tragic announcement of a child’s death. Even the market will be subdued today. 

“Listen, there is something I need to tell you. Something serious,” he licks his suddenly dry lips and feels something cold grip the back of his neck. Like eyes trained on him, staring with a malicious gaze. But when he looks, there is no shadow waiting for him and the sunlight is as warm and as strong as ever. Hamfast’s face is confused and wary when he turns back, “Could you and Bell come by later? Come for dinner. Please,” his voice sounds strained even to his own ears and Hamfast looks more concerned than confused now. 

“Is everything alright, Mister Bilbo?” he asks, voice low. 

“I do not know, actually,” he admits, finally letting go of Hamfast’s sleeve, “All I know is something is happening and it is dangerous. Will you come tonight?” he can tell Hamfast wants to ask a slew of questions but he just nods, hat bouncing on his head and brown eyes serious. 

“Of course, we will both be there,” he confirms and Bilbo breathes a little easier. 

“Thank you, my friend,” he says and quickly takes his leave, the letter in his pocket almost a physical weight. He can feel Hamfast’s stare as he hurries down the lane but he feels better knowing there will soon be two more people who will know about the strangeness. And even more so, once the letter is off to the Blue Mountains and the dwarf Thorin addressed it to. But more than hoping that a letter will come back with answers, Bilbo wills this strange shadow to move on and he sends a little prayer to the Valar that no more children will die. 

————————

The trip to the post does not take too long. Toby Proudfoot, the post Master, a shriveled twig of a hobbit with feet twice the size of Bilbo’s, gives him a jaundiced look but takes the letter amicably enough. Three weeks, he promises Bilbo and he winces. Three weeks is a long time to wait for help.

“How much extra to have in there in a week?” he asks, a note of urgency in his voice though he tries for nonchalance. Toby eyes him, one eyes squinting suspiciously. 

“Five gold coins,” is the brisk response, “Gots to pay one o’ them Rangers to take it over, yeh ken?” It is a steep price for a letter but Bilbo pays it, before adding, 

“Please, Toby. As soon as possible,” that brings the post Master up short and he studies both Bilbo and the letter closely with a frown and deeply furrowed brows. 

“Very well, Mister Baggins, very well. I will have my grandson bring it ‘round to Bree before nightfall,” relieved, Bilbo thanks him and turns to go but Toby’s eyes have not lost their suspicious glint, “If I may be askin’, who do you know in the Blue Mountains to be sendin’ them letters?” Annoyed, Bilbo narrows his eyes over his shoulder. 

“That is private business, thank you. And I will be returning for my money if I find that letter takes any longer than you promised,” he snaps because he has has enough of gossip and confounded hobbit curiosity to last him a lifetime. Toby grumbles but rings a bell on the counter. As Bilbo steps out of the little shop, he can hear running footsteps and then a hurried conversation. At least the prospect of losing money hastens things along. Bilbo has found that it often does. 

Halfway back, a different kind of dread closes around his heart when he sees Lobelia marching straight towards him. Her face is twisted in anger and she holds a closed parasol like a sword. 

“Bilbo Baggins!” she shrieks and heads turn their way, more popping out of windows and doorways. He grits his teeth and pauses, waiting for the inevitable storm. He supposes it is only his own bad luck that she would spot him before he had a chance to respond to her letter. A letter that is a forgotten crumple somewhere in his study at this very moment. It could be worse, he muses. He could have burned it like he wanted.

“Good afternoon, Lobelia,” he murmurs as politely as he can around the clenching of his jaw. She sneers at him from under her hat. 

“It most certainly is not a good morning, Bilbo Baggins, nor is it like to be as long as you refuse to cooperate with my requests!” she hisses, sounding an awful lot like a cat whose tail has just been trodden upon. Bilbo is all too aware of the stares, though he thinks if pressed, most of the Shire would not take his cousin’s side. Everyone knows Bag End rightfully belongs to Bilbo and think Lobelia is grasping and horrible for trying to take it from him (as he has been informed by several acquaintances). But they will all watch with no compunction as the two wills clash. Bilbo rubs his the bridge of his nose in irritation. 

“Lobelia, why must we go through this every year? My father’s will has not magically changed since it was last examined, just like it wasn’t the time before that or the time before that,” he does not care if his voice is weary. The woman would try the patience of Yavanna herself. Lobelia huffs and props her fists up on her hips like she is readying for battle. 

“It is well within my rights as a Baggins, and you know it,” something in him snaps and he rounds on her with fury burning in his blood like fire. 

“Enough,” he snaps, “I am not playing this game with you anymore. Bag End and everything in it belongs to me, including the books, the garden and the silver. Yes, I know about that, don’t think I don’t and you are lucky I have decided to be generous and allowed you to keep those couple of pieces of silverware. But you will not be digging up my father’s will anymore,” here she tries to interject but he holds up his hand and stares her down, “This is neither the appropriate time or place for this. A child was killed last night and here you are shrieking at me over earthly possessions that do not belong to you and never will. Go home, Lobelia and take your insensitivity with you. I will not tolerate it anymore,” with that he stalks off, fury beating a sharp, frantic beat in his chest. It has been a very long time since he has lost his temper quite so badly but instead of feeling guilty about it, he feels oddly liberated. Even when Lobelia shouts after him, “I’m not done with you yet! I take exceptional issue with that dwarf you are hiding away! Bilbo? Bilbo!” he keeps walking.

He is a few paces away, listening to Lobelia’s scream of frustration with some satisfaction when he realizes he is not alone. A small hand catches his elbow just as he turns his head to see Esmerelda Took pacing calmly beside him. She shoots him a sly smile, eyes dancing in the shade of her curls. 

“Well done, cousin. I didn’t know you had it in you,” she praises and he laughs, something loosening in his chest as he does. 

“Saw that, did you?” he mumbles, patting her hand where it clutches at his elbow. Eyes follow them down the lane but unlike a few days ago when he was accompanied by an injured dwarf, these stares are approving and amused. He swears he sees Milla Proudfoot wink at him as he walks by her shop. 

“Darling, half the Shire saw that. You were not very discreet,” he puffs his chest up indigently and Esmerelda squeezes his elbow affectionately, “It was fantastic. I’ve never seen anyone stand up to that woman’s nonsense before,” she chuckles, “Truly a sight to behold,” Bilbo allows himself to chuckle as they pace next to each other. Esmerelda is really an aunt but she is closer to his age than his mother when she was alive and he has always enjoyed her company. 

“Yes well,” he ducks his head but he suspects she sees his smile anyway, “She crossed the line today.” They turn up the lane to Bag End, sun glinting in the lingering raindrops tenaciously clinging to the foliage. Hamfast is no longer trimming hedges and the path is quiet save their crunching footsteps and a blue bird singing sweetly just out of sight. 

“But I would argue that she always does. Demanding to drag out your father’s will every year is more than just crossing the line. Its more like…galloping full speed over it astride a horse,” he snorts at the image but he does not argue. He has to admit, his cousin has a point, “Now. I have been hearing some strange rumors the last couple days. Will you invite me in for some tea so I can weasel the truth from you?” they are at his gate and he realizes he cannot keep her out unless he is rude. He decides he has had enough of rudeness for one day. 

“As long as you don’t go snooping about my home,” he warns as he leads her into the gate and enjoys her tinkling laughter, even though it does nothing to reassure him. 

But Esmerelda, for once, does as he asks and stays with him in the kitchen, sipping tea and listening to his story of bringing Thorin back in from the woods. It takes a little while, as she has always been fond of interrupting but finally he gets the whole thing out and is left waiting for a reaction. Her dark blue eyes, the same shade as his own, are thoughtful as she idly spins her teacup around on its saucer. 

“That is very different from the accounts that are being bandied about,” she comments finally, voice as mild as the expression on her face. Bilbo snorts unkindly and takes a sip of his own lukewarm tea. 

“That does not surprise me in the least,” he grumbles and smiles reluctantly when his cousin laughs softly. 

“You surprise me, Bilbo. First you bring a strange, injured dwarf into your house and then you yell at Lobelia. A few days ago I would have said such thing an impossibility. But perhaps you are more Took than everyone gives you credit for,” her lips curl prettily in a smile that makes him a little nervous, “Does that upset you?” her question catches him off guard but he then considers it for a long minute. He thinks about his mother, unashamedly a Took even long after she married into the Baggins family. Thinks about his little adventures into the woods and his desire to meet elves, to see mountains and great rivers and even the sea. He think about the dwarf in his guest room and he smiles. 

“No, is not a bad thing, to be a Took,” and for a moment, Esmerelda looks very much like his mother when she beams at him. She takes her leave soon after, giving him a peck on the cheek before she leaves. 

“I’d like to meet that dwarf before he is gone,” she says, smiling cheekily, “Thank him for dragging you out of your proper, demure little shell,” and then she winks, leaving him gaping in shock. He yells after her that she is wrong but she just laughs him off and disappears down the lane. 

It takes a few hours, an entire pile of laundry cleaned and hung on the line in the garden and several repotted hyacinths, before he can stop grumbling and blushing by turns. 

The worse part is, he thinks his cousin may have been right. 

 

——————————

It is nearly time for him to begin cooking dinner when he finally manages to settle his mind and go back inside. The breeze has dried Thorin’s clothes quickly and he brings them into the guest room before making for the kitchen. Blue eyes flicker to him as he steps into the room and he stops short. Thorin is standing by the window, shoulder leaning against the wall and a frown of impatience on his face. Bilbo sighs. 

“Let me guess. You’re bored,” the dwarf looks at him from under his dark brows, an expression very close to a glare. He puts the clean clothes at the end of the bed and holds up a finger, “I have something for that.” He dashes from the room and comes back with several leather bound books and a smile. Then he gestures to the bed and lifts his eyebrows pointedly. Thorin’s lip quirks but he climbs stiffly back into the bed. 

“And stay there,” Bilbo says sternly, “Hamfast and Bell are coming around for dinner. You can move around then,” The dwarf takes the top book on the pile Bilbo has brought back, a collection of historical tales, with surprising grace and the Almost-smile softening his brow. 

“As you say, Little Fox,” he says, amused. The book looks small in his big, square hands and Bilbo bites back a smile when the dwarf opens to the title page and lifts an eyebrow, “You have brought me children’s stories to read?” he says in a complicated tone that makes it difficult for Bilbo to guess whether he is amused or irritated. He choses to think amused. 

“Children’s historical tales,” he corrects because he believes the distinction is important, “And yes, though you are free to choose another. I just figured that you have not heard most of them, as they are tales about hobbits. If you’re not interested…” but Thorin shakes his head, already settling down on the bed and his eyes dark in the afternoon shadows.

“No, this is fine. Would that I had this every time my nephews demanded new stories when they were young,” it is clearly said offhand but Bilbo finds himself fascinated despite himself. He pauses in the doorway, studying the way Thorn bends over the pages of the book, the way he gently touches the pages and is respectful of the binding. 

“You have nephews?” he asks quietly. He does not know why but the tidbit of insight into Thorin’s life only makes him want to know more. He knows he is from Erid Luin and there is a darkness behind those startling blue eyes that speaks of great loss. But other than that, he knows nothing about Thorin. He is a little disconcerted by how much he wants to know more. The dwarf is smiling, a full smile, bright and fond. It softens his eyes and the corners of his lips and Bilbo stares. 

“Aye, two nephews. Fili and Kili, my sister’s sons. They are good lads, if a bit prone to mischief,” Bilbo huffs a laugh because it seems it is universal, that youth tend towards trouble, no matter their race, “When they were very young, they would wait for me to come back from the forges so that I could tell them stories. When I think back, I may have spoiled them just a little,” Thorin chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that makes Bilbo think of underground rivers and sun on stone. 

“I believe that is an uncle’s prerogative,” he ventures and likes the way the dwarf turns that warm smile on him. 

“I believe you may be right,” he tips the book at Bilbo, “And now I will be able to tell them some new tales, though they are getting a bit old for bedtime stories,” questions are thick on Bilbo’s tongue, to ask more, about how old they are, about what kinds of stories dwarves tell their children, if he has any other family. But he holds onto his curiosity. Dinner needs to be cooked, the table set and the house tidied before Hamfast and Bell show up. There will be another time, he thinks, to find out more about his guest. 

“No one is too old for bedtime stories,” Bilbo states, matter of fact, and Thorin looks down at the book in his lap again.

“Perhaps you are right about that,” and by the time Bilbo slips from the room, Thorin is immersed in the stories, eyes swiftly running along the words and brow furrowing in concentration. There he obediently stays until the front bell rings and dinner is announced. 

 

—————————-

The sun sets over a subdued countryside that evening, its splendor as it dyes the sky red, yellow, gold, orange and every color in between going greatly unnoticed. Pinkish light clings to the edges of leaves and grass, turning dull the later it gets. Finally the sky is dark, the only light from the stars. Later the moon will guild the land in silver but for now, the face of the moon is hidden beyond the edge of the world. 

In the Shire, there is quiet. Night bugs chirp and hum, a fox calls to her kits, and soft, distant laughter from the pub echoes through the hills. 

The only darkness that lurks is simply nighttime shadows, as natural as the breeze and the grass and the dirt.


	4. the Lighting of the Lamps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo is growing a lot more fond of his guest than he would like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took so long! I had the outline and much of the chapter itself written in my journal that I take with me everywhere and I ended up leaving it at a concert. After that, I found I was stuck writing this chapter without it :/ But thankfully I was able to get it back and I worked as quickly as I could to finish. Hope you all enjoy!

Dinner with Hamfast and Bell goes about as well as he expected it to. 

After leaving Thorin to his books, Bilbo cooks furiously. By the time he sets the table, he thinks he managed a decent fair, though he nearly empties his pantry to do so. A big, juicy ham takes center stage, roasted in cloves and honey, with big golden disks of potatoes crisped around their edges and mixed with even browner onions. Fresh, crusty rosemary and garlic rolls fill a bowl, accompanied by butter studded with herbs. Honey glazed carrots and peas swimming in a buttery cream sauce bring bright color to the table, as do the two pink salmon dressed in pepper and lemon. Tomatoes from his own garden sit proudly near the ham, drizzled with pressed oil and basil. There’s cauliflower too, doused in cheese sauce and beets with goat cheese on dressed arugula. He knows Bell always brings dessert but he would be remiss if he did not contribute. So on the side table next to the counter sits a covered plate with apple tarts he made swiftly while the ham was cooking. 

The smells bring Thorin from the guest room long before the knock comes at the door, finger saving his place in the book he brings in with him and blue eyes wide as he takes in the already crowded table. Bilbo eyes him from where he is stirring the carrots, looking for any unsteadiness but it seems Thorin is recovering well. He makes a note to check on the wound before they retire for the night.

“How many guests are you having over?” he asks in a strangled voice, reaching out to pick up a roll. Bilbo, unthinking, leans over and slaps his wrist, making the dwarf drop his prize. Thorin huffs but he leaves the food alone, instead hovering by the doorway and observing with wide-eyed interest. 

“Only Hamfast and Bell,” Bilbo responds absently, running through the list of food he’s made under his breath. There is a sharp huff of air at the doorway and he glances up, distracted, to find Thorin boggling at him, “What?” Thorin spreads his hands, indicating the room and shakes his head in amazement. 

“I will never understand how creatures so small can eat so much,” he finally remarks, leaning against the doorway. Bilbo, frowning at the spread of food on his table and wondering if he is missing anything, still notices Thorin favoring his injured side. Then he tries to see what Thorin is talking about, taking in the ham and the vegetables and the pretty plates and the shiny silver of the cutlery. It looks like the right amount to him. In fact, his own spread is modest compared to the fare that he knows many others provide for guests. 

“It is not that much,” he says with a huff, “Just the right amount, I should think.” Thorin stares some more and Bilbo finds himself asking, “Do dwarves eat a lot less?” he thinks he will be laughed at but Thorin just tips his head to the side, considering. 

“I suppose. We do eat quite a bit if we are hungry or celebrating. More than any elf or even man. But typically we keep it to three meals a day or less,” he responds and now it is Bilbo’s turn to stare. Surely not!

“Three meals?” his voice is high and incredulous. He cannot even fathom it, “Only three meals?” while hobbits do not eat as much as he has prepared for dinner tonight on a meal to meal basis, the very idea of existing on only three meals sounds like a depressing and hungry state of affairs. The Almost-smile crinkling the corners of Thorin’s eyes betrays his amusement. 

“Aye, only three,” he agrees, voice gravelly with suppressed laughter, “Now you know why I am so amazed at the amount of food hobbits can put away on a daily basis,” as Bilbo considers this, Thorin wavers a little in the doorway, hand straying to his side. Absently, Bilbo pulls out a chair and gestures to it, shaking his head when Thorin takes it gratefully. He will not remind Thorin again that his prescribed length of time healing in bed is not quite finished. He is not a tween to be scolded, though silently Bilbo lets himself worry a little. And then he realizes it has been years since he has worried over anyone like this and wonders what that means for him. In regards to Thorin, that is. 

“Well,” Bilbo says, back firmly turned so Thorin cannot suss out the direction of his thoughts, “now you can enjoy hobbit hospitality and the correct number of meals.” The rough, pleasant sound of Thorin’s laugh makes him smile in turn. It is a warm sound, warm like fire and as slow as honey and Bilbo is horribly aware of how much he likes it. So much so, the relief that spikes through him when they are irrupted by a gentle knock on the front door is embarrassing. 

Thorin is ever watchful as Bilbo excuses himself and makes a hurried escape. 

Bell and Hamfast are delightful company. They greet Thorin as if he has always been there, Bell keeping him in his seat with a firm hand and quick, concerned questions when he goes to stand upon their arrival. His blue eyes are wide and a little bewildered but he is polite enough, assuring both he is recovering very well and owes it them as well as to Bilbo. Bell laughs charmingly and Hamfast cheerfully waves him off and Thorin looks a little wildly at Bilbo. Apparently, he feels the same about the Gamgees waving off his thanks as Bilbo does when they do the same to him. He just lifts a shoulder and gives him a lopsided smile. 

“Everyone have a seat, please,” he offers politely, accepting a large pie dish from Hamfast to put on the side table for dessert. Bell seats herself right next to Thorin, beaming at him and asking him how he is finding his stay in the Shire. Bilbo, biting back a smile, does not hear his reply because Hamfast leans towards him from where he is sitting on his right. 

“All seems well here, Mister Bilbo,” his voice holds a question, though Bilbo wonders what prompts him to ask. He offers his friend a reassuring smile and the plate of potatoes. 

“He is indeed doing better,” he amends, giving half an ear to Thorin quietly explaining to Bell about his bewilderment over hobbit meals. She has the same reaction Bilbo did upon hearing about normal dwarven eating habits and he is faintly amused by the tiny grin hiding under Thorin’s dark beard, “it seems dwarves are a good deal heartier than hobbits.” He stops and moves a bit of cheese and tomatoes onto his plate. Thorin is doing better and he does not know why that makes him feel so forlorn. When he looks up, the dwarf is watching him, blue eyes steady.

“You have a beautiful spread, Bilbo, as always,” Bell says warmly at his other side and he feels himself relax a little when he can pull himself away from that gaze. 

“Thank you,” he responds easily and the conversation turns to more lighthearted things like the state of his garden, the promise of his fruit harvest and, inevitably, to gossip. Hamfast gleefully regales them with a tale of old Cottar Chubb loudly and inelegantly proposing to one of the pretty Boffins girls who run the bakery in the Shire proper. It is an incident, Bilbo explains to a bemused Thorin, that happens at least once a month and none of the pretty young ladies, and even a few of the lads, are free from Cottar’s advances. Hamfast guffaws as he explains how Cottar tripped over his own shoelaces and ended up arse-over-kettle in one of the bread baskets. Even Thorin cracks a grin at the image, though he still looks rather taken-back by the whole thing. 

“Is it usual for hobbits to casually bandy about proposals?” he asks carefully, scattering some peas across his plate with his fork when he is not paying attention. Bell tinkles a laugh and looks over at her husband, eyes warm. But it is Bilbo who responds, a wry twist to his lips. 

“Ah, no, proposals are taken rather seriously, as they should be,” he states clearly, neatly taking a bite of ham and potatoes, “Cottar is a bit of a old, drunken fool and has been doing this since I was young,” he taps his mouth with his fork and grins, “Asked me more than once, actually,” Thorin nearly chokes on his mouthful of bread, eyes wide and Bell laughs heartily as she slaps his back. 

“Oh, I remember that!” she chuckles, eyes twinkling and Hamfast grins around his fork. Bilbo makes a token protest, mainly because he is not proud of the story but she overruns him without pausing for breath, “Now, Bilbo was still barely out of his tweens at the time, only just come of age and quite the catch of the Shire,” Bilbo groans, cheeks hot, and hides his face in his hands, “You were working in your front garden, were you not, and along comes Cottar humming a ditty and as smarmy as you please. Always was a bit of a dandy, I must say,” Bilbo snorts but remains silent. He can feel Thorin watching him, the weight of his gaze beginning to feel familiar, and he does not dare to move his own eyes from his plate, “Anyway, he catches sight of our Bilbo here, curls all gold in the sun and pretty among all his flowers and stops dead in his tracks.”

“Pretty!?” Bilbo yelps but he goes largely ignored, save for the way Thorin’s Almost-smile deepens. Bell waves her hand at him and keeps on with her story. 

“Cottar must have stared for a full minute before he scurries off down the road, picks a handful of innocent wildflowers and returns with sad little bouquet. Well, our Bilbo here is a gardener so naturally those ripped up wildflowers have the opposite effect that Cottar was hoping for,” Bilbo sighs at the memory of those lovely bluebells, already wilting in Cottar’s hands by the time he was presented with them.

“What happened?” Thorin asks, looking intrigued despite himself. Bilbo gives him a wry look. 

“I threw the pile of weeds I was holding at him in the middle of his asking, or mumbling really, for my hand. For the third time, mind, and told him that I would never consider marrying anyone who has so little sense,” he states primly and takes a furious bite of his lovely salad, angry just from the memory. Hamfast chuckles and Bell nudges his shoulder. 

“Come on, Bilbo, you did more than that,” he gives her a sidelong look at her needling and rolls his eyes. She turns to Thorin and Bilbo cannot hide his wince, “Bilbo not only covered old Cottar with worms and dirt but then proceeded to chase him all the way down the lane with his rake. Never seen the like before but it was indeed a privilege to witness,” all three of them laugh and Bilbo finds himself smiling reluctantly. 

“Well, he never came back around, that’s for sure,” he mumbles, still feeling a little pink around the ears. Yes, he had chased Cottar with a rake but no one knows just how the old coot had begun his ill-advised ‘proposal’ nor will Bilbo ever tell a single soul. He feels dirty just thinking about it. Hamfast barks another laugh over the rim of his glass. 

“Oh, aye, stays as far away from you as possible, he does. Can’t say I blame him. Some of those things you were yelling at him as you chased him sounded pretty violent,” everyone is surprised when Thorin snorts rather loudly, eyes dancing in the light of the ceiling lamps. 

“So you were always fierce, I see,” to which opens an entire conversation discussing just how fierce Bilbo is, much to his eternal embarrassment, during which he unwillingly tells them about his run-in with Lobelia only that afternoon. Hamfast grins and pats him on his back and Bell huffs, chin firmed. 

“Only got what she deserved, she did,” she observes and Bilbo feels warm for a different reason. He also quite agrees, though he does not say as much. Instead he steers the conversation away from himself and character traits he may or may not feel he deserves the label for. If Thorin’s eyes keep straying back towards him, well, he cannot help but look back. Every time their eyes meet, the dwarf’s eyebrows soften and his lips curl upwards. Bilbo wonders what he thinks of all this, the gossip and his guests. He already knows what the dwarf thinks of the food, both the amount and whether he enjoys it. Thorin, as far as he can tell, is on his third helping. 

Bilbo grins into his plate. 

It is not until dinner has been cleared from the table and dessert takes its place that he brings up the reason why he asked Hamfast and Bell over in the first place. He tells them the story, from the odd moment in the woods when he first met Thorin to the shadow nearly invading Bag End. 

“And you think that this thing, this shadow thing, is what killed the little Brown boy?” Hamfast’s voice is serious, his eyes dark and mouth pulled downwards. Bilbo thinks it is the most serious he has ever seen him. Bell has her hand pressed to her mouth, eyes sad. 

“Drogo told me one of the other children with him, Dirah Bracegirdle, said the night ate him. It is too close a description and too much of a coincidence for my peace of mind,” Bilbo murmurs, feeling like the night is pressing in around them. The kitchen is carefully lit, from the chandelier overhead to the wall sconces and the fireplace, all throwing cheerful yellow light around the room. But the window above the sink looks like a terrible black eye and the shadows from the hallway feel watchful. Thorin catches him looking and frowns. His first slice of pie is gone from his plate, nothing but a memory and a few crumbs but he moves around the small, second slice he had greedily taken moments ago as if the talk of shadows and death twisted his stomach. Bilbo cannot blame him; the feeling of being pleasantly full has solidified and turned heavy. 

“I have never heard anything of its like happening before,” Bell says slowly, voice quaking a little and Hamfast reaches over to clutch her hand, a strong, steady comfort. 

“Aye, nor I,” Thorin agrees, deep rumble of a voice drawing all three of their eyes, “There are things, evil things, that lurk in the darkness of this world. There are legends of one such thing lurking in the ancient dwarven city of Moria, a creature so foul and corrupt it drove my people from their home and we have never been able to secure a return,” he pauses and takes a breath. In his eyes Bilbo can see a great sadness, a story of great misfortune heavy in the lines of his face, “I have heard of orcs and trolls in raiding groups murdering whole families and bands of travelers and even of dragons that breathe fire squatting in ruined cities that they killed thousands for,” he takes another breath and Bilbo wishes he could reach over and offer some kind of comforting touch. But Thorin’s voice is still strong when he continues speaking, “But this is nothing like I have ever seen or heard told about. Usually evil takes some kind of physical form, can be fathomed with eyes and bodily harm.” He lifts his shoulders helplessly. The dread that has been growing in Bilbo’s belly turns to ice. 

“Is it here to stay?” Bell asks after Thorin’s words threw quiet over the table where they sat like a great, wooly blanket. They all look at one another and it is sobering that no one knows the answer. 

“I think we should act as if it is,” Thorin says after a moment, eyes distant, “I have sent a letter to a friend but I do not know how long it will take for word to come back. They still won’t be expecting me back home for a couple more days and the letter will take even longer to find the dwarf I intended it for. Whether he will even have any answers for us remains unclear,” his words are like a dousing of cold water and Bilbo can see Hamfast’s knuckles are white where he grips his wife’s hand. 

“Then how do we stay safe? Should we warn others?” Hamfast asks just as Bilbo looks sharply at Thorin, eyebrows climbing up into his curls. 

“You plan to stay here for that long?” he blurts out and Thorin looks at him with dark, haunted eyes. 

“For all the good my presence my do, yes. I cannot, in good conscious, leave gentle folk like yourselves behind to face this danger,” he says earnestly and something in Bilbo uncoils, “As for your concerns, Hamfast, I think the other residents of the Shire should know. Be wary of darkness, lock windows and doors, children are supervised. I know you are used to peace here and I am glad that is so. But caution would be a wise course of action for as long as this threat lingers here,” they are prudent words, spoken with the weight of authority behind them. While Bell and Hamfast murmur agreements, Bilbo looks at Thorin and wonders. 

“Very good then, Master Thorin, that is what we shall do,” Hamfast’s jaw is squared with determination and Bilbo feels a flicker of admiration for his friend. Bell looks just as determined. He is glad that he decided to trust them with this. Level heads are sometimes hard to find in the Shire. 

Bilbo sees Bell and Hamfast out not long after, darkness long since descended upon the Shire. The moon rests gently in the cradle of the tree line and flickers of lightning bugs dance in the bushes beside his walkway. There is nothing threatening in the air, no sense of dread, no deep, watching shadows but he sends a silent prayer to the Valar that they make it back to their smial safely. 

“Oh, Mister Bilbo, I nearly forgot,” Hamfast turns back to him, face sombre, still hand in hand with Bell. Bilbo pauses in closing the door, poking his head back out into the night, “The Lighting of the Lamps for Toffney is tomorrow night. I thought you would like to know.” Bilbo swallows against the sudden lump in his throat and lifts a hand in acknowledgement. 

“Thank you, Hamfast, I’ll be there,” he promises and shuts himself behind his door with the lights bright in the entryway and a dwarf lurking in the hall. Bilbo does not jump but it is a close thing. 

“What is a lighting of the lamps?” Thorin asks keenly and Bilbo sighs, feeling horribly tired. He waves to the dwarf, indicating to follow him back into the kitchen and starts cleaning up the dessert plates and leftovers before he answers. Blue eyes darkened by the flickering firelight follow him around as he moves and every time he steps back to the table to pick up another plate, Thorin is there, holding it out to him. 

“The Lighting of the Lamps,” he says softly as he washes the plates, “is how we say goodbye in the Shire and send off the deceased’s spirit,” Thorin stands next to him, drying cloth in hand so he can dry and stack the dishes as Bilbo finishes with them, “In the morning, the family and friends will bury the body, give them back to the Earth. But at night, we all gather and light little lamps that float into the sky. We sing songs too,” he pauses in his washing and stares at the dark window in front of him. As he watches, a moth flutters by, “The songs for a child…they are very sad,” a touch on his shoulder startles him and he looks over to find Thorin close, face shadowed and serious. He says nothing but there is comfort in the gentleness of his fingers on Bilbo’s shoulder. 

The moment is over quickly, the warm touch gone before he can so much as smile his thanks. The way the shadows lay upon Thorin’s face as he turns back to the last few dishes, Bilbo suspects he understands this particular brand of loss all too well. A communal loss, the horrific death of younglings, their bright future and potential snuffed away before they even had a chance to live. He does not want to ask why Thorin would be so familiar with it. Not tonight. 

Not with the heaviness of the night and the dull moonshine slowly getting eaten by clouds outside the window. 

He simply puts his plates away, aware of Thorin leaning heavily on the back of one chair, then bustles the dwarf back into the guest bedroom. Thorin goes quietly, expression pensive and allows Bilbo to rewrap his wound. The wound itself is still an angry red pucker but it is not as raw-looking as it was this morning so he counts that as a blessing. He gently spreads on some of the ointment and is binding it back up again when Thorin speaks.

“Would it…would it be intrusive of me if I came with you?” Bilbo looks up in surprise and finds Thorin looking away, eyes trained on something outside the open bedroom door. At first he does not know how to respond. Strangers do not really take much note of hobbits to want to attend their funerals so he has no idea about the etiquette. Then again, neither would anyone else. 

“If it is important for you to come,” he responds finally, stepping back from the bed. Thorin is quiet again, that dark, distant expression on his face and something seizes control of Bilbo’s mouth, “Is there a reason why you feel so strongly about this?” he blurts out and then, horrified, tries to backpedal, “No, I mean, you just…that is…I don’t mean to pry…” face red, he bites his lip, stilling the babble. But when Thorin looks back, his expression is gentle. 

“That’s quite alright. I suppose I have been rather mysterious, haven't I?” Bilbo bites his lip, not sure how to feel now that his questions are about to get answered. Thorin sighs softly, turning his head so his heavy braid falls against his collarbone and the firelight clings to the sharp edges of his cheekbones and nose, “I admit I feel a little responsible for what is happening, even though I know there is nothing I could have done differently to change this. I feel responsible for many things, ill deeds that weigh heavily on my heart even though my head reminds me over and over that no matter what I had done, it all would have ended the same way.” Thorin pauses, voice thick with an emotion Bilbo cannot name. Silently, he lowers himself onto the chair beside the bed, afraid that if he makes too much noise, the dwarf will stop talking. 

“At dinner, I mentioned a dragon,” blue eyes cut to him, the color of them sharp and pale. Bilbo nods, “I know of it because I have encountered it. He came down from the north many years ago and stole my—my home. My people’s home. We were driven out or turned to charcoal. As we wandered in the wilderness, I wondered over and over what I could have done differently, how I could have saved them or turned the dragon away. Now I see I could not; that events would happen the same way no matter what I or anyone else had done.” Bilbo sits in horrified amazement, watching the way dark eyebrows furrow and a deep frown etches itself into the lines around Thorin’s mouth. A more woeful tale he had never heard. He is sorry now to have asked, to make the dwarf remember such loss. 

“I am sorry,” he whispers sincerely, heart aching. Thorin accepts this with a nod and his eyes linger on Bilbo face. It takes him a moment to realize another question has arisen. Or rather, his original question was not really answered, “If I may ask, why is it you feel responsible for them? Why you?” Thorin barks a short laugh and his eyes turn haunted. 

“Because I was their prince,” he looks away, fly away curls touching softly upon his cheeks and neck, “And now I am their king,” Bilbo thinks he sees the dwarf grimace but he is more concerned with his answer. King! If he was not already sitting, he would fall over in shock. A king! In his home! He presses his hands to his burning cheeks. It is a surprise and yet not really. Thorin carries himself with an air of regal confidence, a self-assurance of the like Bilbo has never encountered before. He attributed it to a cultural thing but most dwarves carry themselves with simple pride. Thorin’s bearing is more than that. 

“Oh,” Bilbo croaks, throat tight. There is a long silence, full of sadness and memories. He understands loss in his own way, he knows. The passing of his father and then his mother left him bereft and alone. But he cannot imagine the scale of Thorin’s pain. A whole city taken away by dragon fire and its people homeless or slaughtered. And Thorin their king. Their leader. Bilbo knows from rumors and tales that no mere mortals can defeat a dragon but even so, he can understand why the responsibility and loss weighs so heavily on this one dwarf’s shoulders. 

After the silence becomes a nearly physical weight, Bilbo digs around for a way to break it, the stillness making him anxious. 

“Don’t you…need to return to them?” he asks, voice slow and he flushes inexplicably when Thorin’s stare turns questioning, “I mean, your people. Instead of staying here,” the Almost-smile returns, surfacing from under the gloom and softening the hard planes if Thorin’s face. 

“Not immediately, no. We have a life of sorts in the Blue Mountains and my prolonged absence will not bring it crumbling down,” a broad shoulder lifts in a shrug and Thorin plucks at the blankets before smoothing his fingers over the fresh bandages around his ribs, “My family will be waiting for me, of course, but my sister is quite capable. I would not have left if she could not handle things,” Bilbo leans forward, intrigued. 

“Is she a lot like you?” he asks, curiosity finally getting the better of his cautious propriety. Thorin eyes him but he does not seem to be bothered by the question. Instead he gives Bilbo a crooked grin. 

“Aye, a bit. We look similar, I suppose, though she can take down an orc with her glare alone,” Thorin chuckles, low and deep. It prickles along Bilbo’s skin and he shivers a little. Thorin does not notice, thankfully, face gone soft with affection as he speaks. It looks lovely on him, Bilbo thinks absently, “Not a single dwarf is willing to take her on when she is in a temper, not even the old, grizzled warriors. Dis has a bellow like an ox and welds an axe nearly as well as I do,” The blue eyes are wide when they meet his own, dancing with mirth, “Terrifying woman and the only one I know able to keep those two sons of hers in line,” Bilbo find himself grinning along with the dwarf, caught up. 

“The nephews you mentioned before?” Bilbo asks and gets an appreciative look in return. 

“The very same,” Thorin agrees, “Fili is the eldest. Looks most like his father and…and my brother,” Bilbo notes the stumble but lets the dwarf continue speaking, enjoying the smiles and the small peek into Thorin’s life, “On his own he is responsible and I see the makings of a great king in him but as long as Kili is around, I fear that potential may never be recognized,” he snorts and shakes his head, “I love my youngest nephew like he is my own but, Mahal, the boy is trouble.” Bilbo laughs and tries to imagine it. A young dwarf dragging his older brother around and getting the two of them into all kinds of mischief. 

“They sound wonderful,” he murmurs and bites back a silly grin when Thorin barks a laugh. 

“Oh, aye, a wonderful handful,” the dwarf retorts agreeably, reaching over and pulling the tunic he discarded earlier back over his head. A few curls pull free of their braid and fall over Thorin’s forehead like whispers of silvery midnight escaped from the sky. Then he regards Bilbo with a long glance. 

“Do you not have family?” he asks, voice quiet. Bilbo sits back and cannot help but laugh. 

“Like you would not believe,” he returns, thinking of the scrolls and scrolls in the library that hold his family tree, of the long, complicated network of lines and names, “Droves of cousins and aunts and uncles. The Took side of my family tends to breed like rabbits but the Baggins side is not all that far behind. I have honestly lost count at this point and just show up to birthday parties when I am invited. Not a day goes by, in fact, that I do not get a knock on the door by some relation or another,” Thorin grunts a laugh only to stop and stare when Bilbo just raises his eyebrows, “I’m being quite serious, I assure you. We hobbits are rather fond of children,” he quirks a grin because now Thorin looks bemused. 

“But none of them live here with you,” he states, voice cautious and Bilbo shrugs. He does not mind. Once, he might have but that time has come and passed. 

“No, my parents both passed when I was young and now I am a confirmed bachelor,” he says it blithely but he does not miss the way Thorin glances away, eyes a little sad. All at once, his good humor trickles away and he slumps in his chair, suddenly tired, “It is not so bad. Not really,” but he does not like the way Thorin looks at him, like he knows Bilbo is trying to convince himself. 

“You will have to explain to me the complexities of hobbit families,” Thorin says but his voice is strained and Bilbo’s smile feels forced when he meets the startlingly blue gaze. 

“Naturally and you will have to tell me more about living under mountains,” white teeth flash from under the dark beard and he feels a little better for the sight of that smile. But he still climbs to his feet, last night’s poor sleep and today’s events making his limbs feel heavy with fatigue, “In the morning. I fear I am ready to fall asleep as I sit.” Thorin nods and bids him a soft goodnight, adding a word that Bilbo does not understand and which rumbles through him like thunder. 

The sound follows him all the way back to his room and into his dreams, chasing away any shadows that would disturb his slumber. 

 

_________________

 

Bilbo does not notice until much later the next day that something is wrong with his garden. 

The sun and big fluffy clouds fight for dominance in the sky, making the light dance upon the leaves and the colorful petals. It glances off the rim of his wide-brimmed hat and he squints every time another big cloud frees the sun from behind its shade. Today he works mostly in the herb beds, weeding and trimming and taking clippings so he can bundle them up and hang them to dry. Hamfast came by already, helping him with the watering and now he works out by the fruit trees, hidden from view by thick lilac bushes. Bilbo likes doing as much of the work himself but the garden is too big for him to tend on his own. 

He knows Hamfast tends a couple other gardens, especially old Deliah Took who needs a cane to walk and can no longer hold a trowel in her arthritic hands. She was loath to let her poor roses grow wild and Hamfast has been working for her ever since. There are a few others whose gardens are brighter for Hamfast’s attention but the Gamgees have been working for his family for generations. Most of the time, Hamfast can be found somewhere on Bilbo’s property. 

Today Hamfast is not his only company in the garden, though. Thorin sits on a bench near the back of his smial, legs stretched out in front of him and a book hiding his face from view. His dark hair gleams, the silver threaded through the black looking like waves of metal. It has begun to fall out of the loose braid the dwarf put it into last night and the soft breeze pulls on the stray strands with eager fingers. Bilbo catches Thorin tucking them behind his ears more than once, the movement absent. The wind does not distract him from the book and Bilbo wonders which one has caught the dwarf so thoroughly. It is not the same one from yesterday, as that one was finished by the time Bilbo started first breakfast this morning. Thorin must have stayed up after Bilbo went to bed to finish it. 

“Very interesting reading,” Thorin had said when he wandered into the kitchen, brought in by the smell of bacon and toast. He placed the book on the table as he sat down, hand lingering on the leather cover. 

“You liked it, then?” Bilbo asked, attention divided between the eggs in the pan and Thorin’s crinkled blue eyes. The dwarf hummed thoughtfully. 

“Yes, though I admit I was doubtful at first. I particularly enjoyed the story of Bullroarer Took and the Battle of Greenfields. Hobbits can be rather fierce if the situation calls for it,” his eyes gleamed as he said it, looking at Bilbo as if he was including him in the comment. He had to turn back to the eggs to hide how flustered it made him. 

“I suppose we do. Bandobras was a great-great-uncle of mine, actually,” he said conversationally, pushing the eggs onto two plates and placing them on the table. The Almost-smile softens Thorin’s brow. 

“That does not surprise me in the least,” Thorin murmured and tucked into his breakfast still wearing that damn near smile. Bilbo huffed and turned to putting out the rest of the food, unsure if Thorin had been teasing him or not. And then he realized it did not matter. Teasing or serious, he would be flustered either way. He tried to hide his blush behind his toast but he suspected Thorin picked up on it, if the way his lips curled before he snagged a big bite of bacon. When Bilbo finally managed to find words again, he patted his lips with a napkin and said shyly,    
“If you want, my library is at the end of the righthand hallway. All of my books are at your disposal during your stay.” He hated to admit it but he liked the way Thorin grinned at him, even if it was with his mouth full of toast when he did. Thorin had taken him up on his offer and disappeared right after breakfast into the library. 

He learned something else about dwarves today, he thinks now as he gently clips a sprig of rosemary and adds it to the basket waiting by his knee. They might be gruff miners and metal workers with no talent for gardening nor much love for growing things but it seems they have a passion for books and stories. At least, Thorin does. Bilbo is curious whether that is a personal quirk or all dwarves share the same fascination. Admittedly, he is curious about a lot of things. Like who the dwarf is that he sent the letter to yesterday. About his family; if he has other siblings or just the sister and brother he mentioned in passing. More about dwarven culture; is it only their hair they are particular about? What about their beards? Thorin’s is worn short but every other dwarf Bilbo has seen always has long beards decorated in metal clips and beads and braided in intricate patterns. Maybe there is a reason why Thorin keeps his beard short. 

Bilbo wishes he is brave enough to ask. He almost did, at breakfast but he does not know how. In the few books he has read that even discuss dwarves, they all mention their secrecy and privateness. The last thing Bilbo wants to do is make another blunder like when he offered to brush Thorin’s hair. 

Blushing, he digs vigorously at a particularly stubborn weed hiding amid the sage. He needs to keep in mind who Thorin is. And who Bilbo himself is; a little hobbit from the Shire with very little significance besides his lovely garden. What would a king want with a garden? More importantly, Bilbo wonders has he sits back on his heels and admires his newly weed free herb bed, why is this so important to him? 

No matter how lovely or charming Thorin may be, it is an impossibility and it will continue to stay that way, no matter any growing feelings.

That so settled in his mind, Bilbo pulls of his gloves and brushes his hands on his trousers as he stands. Carefully, he does not look at the occupied bench as he starts his rounds through the garden, stopping at each bed to greet the plants. Petals are soft under his fingers and when he speaks softly to them, they reach eager leaves upwards. Quiet joy fills him as he paces along the wandering rows of stone pathways. A sense of rightness and belonging steadies his feet and hands. Here, there are no shadows or troubling dwarves with dangerously pretty eyes and gentle Almost-smiles. There is no danger lurking behind the leaves, no dead children and no troubling mysteries. Here there is just peace and life and he lets it soak into his soul, lets it center his mind. 

By the time he reaches the back of the garden where rose bushes build a wall twice as high as he stands, he feels more normal than he has all week. 

And then he notices the damage on his roses and the fleeting feeling is gone. 

Bilbo stares at his lovely roses in dismay. 

The damage touches upon the outer most petals of the flowers and has begun devouring the leaves. Brown spots wrinkles the edges and some of the flowers, which are nearly the size of cabbages, already droop heavily on their stems. If he did not know better, he would say it looks like frost damage. He remembers his father’s lilies, remembers what they looked like when the cold came too early. Though his roses now are not nearly as damaged, they are starting along the same path. But when was it so cold to cause frost damage? It is the middle of the summer and has been as balmy as always. 

Confusion gripping his heart, he makes another round of his garden, this time checking them for signs of damage. He finds, as he goes, that it is only the plants at the back of his garden; his roses and his hostas, the hyacinths and primroses, his pretty lily of valley and his abundant Pink Frost foliage. 

All are tipped with brown rot and wilt. 

Dread nearly choking him, he calls for Hamfast as calmly as he can.

“What is it, Mister Bilbo?” Hamfast appears at his elbow almost immediately, voice jovial and wide-brimmed hat pushed up on his forehead. Bilbo indicates the primroses, the flowers dulled a little and the leaves edged with death. 

“Was it cold enough for frost last night, do you recall?” he asks softly, even though he knows it was not. Hamfast leans over the plants, and gently rubs stubby, dirt-stained fingers over the leaves. A confused frown begins to draw down his lips and when he looks at Bilbo, his eyes are completely bewildered. 

“No, it was not cold last night. Not at all,” Hamfast murmurs just as softly. He expertly takes in the rest of the damage, checking all of the plants at the back of the garden as Bilbo had done before he steps away, “By all accounts we have not had any frost since the end of winter, if I may be saying. Been as balmy as ever, it has. But that is most certainly frost damage if I have ever seen it,” ugly dread filled Bilbo’s belly like hot acid. 

They stand on the flagstone pathways for a long, silent moment, surrounded by the warm, bubbling sounds of summer. Finally Hamfast turns to him, teeth gnawing at his bottom lip and fear marring his brow. 

“You don’t suppose this has anything to do with that nasty business you were telling me and Bell last night, do you?” his whispers, like his voice will bring the darkness descending down upon their heads. The question makes him feel a little ill because that is exactly what he was thinking. 

“That the shadow can do something like this?” he murmurs, rubbing his arms with his palms, “If it killed young Toffney then I do not see why it would not turn its malice to other living things.” Like a touch of death. He thinks about how close he and Thorin had come to encountering first hand what the shadow can do and shivers violently. Hamfast takes his hat off and worries the edges of the brim, turning it round and round. 

“It’s right scary business, make no mistake. What do you think we should do? We can hardly wrap the entire garden and it would not save most of the flowers anyway,” Sadly, Bilbo agrees. Wrapping is only to save the more delicate plants not used to freeze that would kill them outright. It will not save foliage and petals. But before he can wrack his brain for a solution, a step behind them on the path startles them both. Thorin looks at them with raised eyebrows, clearly surprised at their fright. Bilbo grips at his frantically beating heart and beside him Hamfast fans himself with his hat. 

“I apologize. I did not realize I was walking so stealthily,” Throin sound properly contrite, though Bilbo suspects they did not hear him simply because they were caught up in their own concerns. When he can talk, Bilbo says as much, indicating his flowers. There is a drawn out moment of silence before the dwarf turns to him, confusion tucked in the line between his dark eyebrows, “Again, I must apologize. What are you looking at?” Bilbo almost laughs aloud. Right. 

“No, no, I’m sorry, of course,” he unthinkingly takes Thorin’s elbow and draws him over to the roses, which seem to have sustained the worst of the damage. Then he points to the browning and wilting edges, heart aching at the sight, “The leaves are dying,” he explains, “All along the back of the garden all the plants are like this,” he watches as the dwarf reaches out and delicately touches the indicted leaves. His fingers look huge and rough on the delicate foliage, though he touches them like they are made of glass. 

“And how does this kind of thing happen?” the dwarf finally asks, drawing away with a dark expression in his eyes. The sight of it chills Bilbo.

“This kind of damage is caused by frost,” he says quietly. Thorin rubs his fingers through his short beard thoughtfully, blue eyes taking in the plants. Now that he knows what he is looking for, Bilbo can see him cataloguing all of it. 

“It most certainly has not been cold enough for frost,” Thorin rumbles slowly and both Bilbo and Hamfast murmur their agreement. 

“We were discussing that very thing when you came upon us,” Bilbo adds, arms curled around his torso. Even though the sun gleams golden through the shade of the great big maple trees that edge his property, he feels cold, “Which is probably why we both scared so easily,” he admits dryly and earns himself a searching sideways look before Thorin turns back to the flowers. 

“Has anything ever happened like this before?” the dwarf asks seriously. Bilbo shrugs. 

“Once that I can remember, when winter came too early. But that was in autumn, not the middle of the summer. And it stayed cold for the rest of the season. Even if we had some kind of improbable cold snap last night, I doubt it could have gotten cold enough for frost only to warm right back up again,” he says reasonably. They stand in silence while Thorin thinks, blue eyes pale in the bright sunlight. His sturdy fingers tap a slow rhythm against his trousers and the pieces of his hair that have escaped his braid are pulled about by a warm breeze. 

“We could try pouring a line of salt around your garden,” Thorin says after a while, with a little nod, “Salt and silver and sage,” he murmurs, like a mantra. It takes him a moment to realize he is being stared at oddly by both hobbits. 

“Why do you say that?” Bilbo asks, though the mention of sage tickles something in his memory. Something he read, maybe, or heard in a story when he was a faunt. Thoirn hesitates a moment before speaking again. 

“When we were young, my sister and brother and I, still in our…home, there was an old dam who was our caretaker,” Thorin murmurs, voice a slow, even cadence. It reminds Bilbo of summer storms full of silent lightning brought on by heat dancing upon the horizon, though he cannot say why. Perhaps for its same mesmerizing quality, “She had many stories to tell because she lived many years. But one thing I remember is her spinning tales about the Wild Folk. Creatures not quite of this world, moving through the shadows of the earth and playing pranks on us, dwarves and men and the like,” a smile curls at the edges of his mouth when he looks at Bilbo and Hamfast, 

“Me and Dis used to think her mad but my brother Frerin would eat her stories up like he was starving for them. They were always horrible stories; the pranks these Wild Folk would play are things of nightmares. But Gris, our caretaker, always told us if we kept a pinch of salt under our beds, wore a piece of pure silver, and always kept a sprig of sage burning in the hearth, they would pass us by,” the dwarf trails off and sighs. His smile has long since turned sad, “I’m not sure what kind of good it will do nor am I pretending to know what kind of creature this shadow is. But it might help, rather than doing nothing.” Bilbo meets his eyes, warm and blue as the sky, and nods. 

He is right. 

So they do as Thorin suggests. They gather up the two bags of salt he keeps in his cellar and walk the outside perimeter of the garden, leaving a thin, unbroken trail of salt. It is white as bone where it falls to the rich, warm dirt. Bilbo hopes it is left alone by any foraging animals or curious hobbits. By the time they are done, they have used up all his salt and much of Hamfast’s as well, who goes off to the same for his own garden. Better to be safe if it works, though his garden shows no sign of damage as far as they can tell. Everything is as green and alive as it always is. Bilbo is not sure what the means but it sends a chill down his spine. 

“Should we tell others to put down salt in their gardens too?” he wonders aloud once he and Thorin are back in Bag End and he is readying a late tea. The afternoon had run away from them and by the time they returned, the sun was beginning run from its cool daytime white to evening gold. Bilbo would wait for dinner but his stomach protests loudly and even Thorin perks up at the mention of food. He figures no harm will come of a late tea. Especially since as soon as the sun disappears from the sky, all the hobbits in the Shire will find their way to the Party Tree to say goodbye to Toffney Brown. Thorin looks up from the book he has spread open on the table and blinks. Spending the day outside seems to have tired him out, judging by the dark smudges under his eyes, and the way he favors his side even sitting down. 

“I think we should see how the salt works for your garden first. Master Gamgee had no damage in his garden,” Thorin says as he turns a biscuit around in his broad fingers. His face is troubled, “It would be concerning if you are being specifically targeted.” 

“Goodness, that is…” terrifying he almost says but stops himself. His hand shakes as he sets the food out on the table; a plate of scones, a jar of jelly, some clotted cream, and a bowl of soft goat cheese flavored with honey. If Thorin notices, he says nothing. When the tea pot starts shrieking on the stove and Bilbo nearly jumps a mile out of his skin, the blue eyes soften just a little. He wonders if it is sympathy or amusement that prompts the change. 

He hopes it is neither. 

They drink their tea in silence with the light of the waning sun pouring golden onto the table. Thorin leafs through the book he brought in with him as he polishes off three scones slathered with jelly and cream but Bilbo does not mind the rudeness of it. He does not mind when Thorin licks stray jelly from his fingers or when he gulps his dark, bitter tea (no milk and sugar how strange!) rather than sips it. Manners seem such a small thing, compared to the strangeness that Bilbo’s life has become. Maybe he might have told Thorin to mind his manners a week ago. But when he sits back with a second cup of steaming tea in his own hands and watches the way thick fingers absently pick at left over crumbs on the plate while pale eyes move over the pages of the book, he finds he likes the lack.

With a small smile he hides behind his cup, Bilbo turns away and watches the sun grow old and fat outside the window. 

————————————

The paper lanterns used for the Lighting of the Lamps ceremony are provided by the extended family of the deceased. Cousins, aunts, and uncles gather together with thin, lightweight paper, small candles and wood to make the lanterns. Usually, the wooden forms for the paper to be attached to are made in advance by older relatives handy at working with wood. Then they attach the paper to the frames and put the candles at the bottom so that when they are lit, the heat fills the covered form and pulls it into the air. No one really knows where the tradition comes from but he remembers reading somewhere, in one of his father’s books, that the light is in deference to Yavanna, a prayer or a guide for the deceased soul to find its way into her welcoming lands. 

Warm, metal lamps hang from the Party Tree and fireflies sparkle and wink amid the wide branches and the long grass of the surrounding fields. It is a spectacular show, like the stars have fallen from the sky and scatter over the earth. Only a glance up reveals the stars still hang in all their majesty in the blue ceiling of the night. No moon blots out their full splendor just yet and for a moment, the fireflies and the stars and the lamps on the tree meld together and become a sea of light. As Bilbo and Thorin stand on the road just above the field of gathering hobbits, the scene seem to stretch endlessly at their feet. 

“This is a beautiful place,” Thorin murmurs appreciatively and Bilbo hums in agreement, “It reminds me of the crystal caverns back home. The rocks look very much like the stars do now, gleaming in the ceilings and on the walls,” when he speaks, it is with fondness and longing and Bilbo can almost imagine it; great yawning caverns underground with walls and ceilings shining and sparkling. 

“I would very much like to see that,” Bilbo says sincerely and gets a slow, warm smile in return. Maybe someday, he thinks as they make their way down to the crowd gathered around the Party Tree. Would that not be a sight to see! Bilbo is daydreaming about adventuring into deep caverns when they join the crowd gathered around the well-lit tree, though he sobers quickly once he is surrounded by the weight of sadness that permeates the field. Everyone gathers in silence and the wind makes more noise than their voices. Even the children are quiet, caught onto their parents’ solemnity and clinging to their hands and skirts with wide eyes. 

A few hobbits stare at Thorin as they pass into the crowd but Bilbo hopes the gossip will be kept to a minimum, at least until tomorrow. Realistically he knows bringing Thorin with him will stir up all kinds of speculation and false gossip. Bilbo is glad for the shadows and inconsistent light because he blushes to imagine what most of his neighbors will think. The rumors that have been spread are already bad enough. Bringing Thorin with him now will only worsen them. But he knew this before as he knows it now and he was not about to say no to Thorin’s request to join him because of rumors. Maddy Brown, Toffeny’s mother, greets both him and his dwarf companion with a watery smile and a handshake, making no issue of Bilbo’s strange shadow. 

“Thank you for coming,” she murmurs to them both, echoed by Lorn, her husband. Their youngest, a little girl with bright blond curls, peers at everyone from around Maddy’s skirt. Bilbo thinks her eyes look too solemn for such a young child. 

Heart heavy with guilt and sadness, he leads Thorin to the Party Tree where dozens of unlit, rectangular paper lanterns crowd around the broad trunk. They are all soft warm colors, pinks and oranges and yellows, interspersed with pale, neutral white. Thorin chooses a white one and Bilbo picks up one of the yellow ones, the frame weighing almost as little as a few blades of grass. When lit, they will glow all the colors of these sunset and set the sky ablaze. He remembers the ones from his parents’ Lighting. The lanterns for Bungo’s were all cool colors, green and blue, that lit the snow covered landscape softly. His mother’s were orange and gold, the exact opposite of her husband’s. They had lit the sky like lines of fire and Bilbo had wept when he thought how much she would have loved them. 

He leads Thorin to the fringes of the crowd after they both take a stick of provided tinder, ignoring the sharp looks from some of Bilbo’s relations and they wait. 

Wait for the rest of the stragglers to wander down into the field, to gather their own lanterns and find a place to stand in the crowd. 

They wait in silence and beside him, Thorin stands very still. 

Then, just as the silence becomes almost stifling, a single note of a song breaks out, eery and shivering in the cool night air. One by one, the lanterns are lit, first those of the deceased’s family and then the rest. They pass the flame to each other as the voice reveals both words and the singer. Maddy Brown’s voice is strong enough so everyone can hear her, lifting as she and Lorn loose their lanterns into the air. They float up, both white and shining, like tiny moons rising in the sky.

When the flame is passed to Bilbo and Thorin, they use their tinder to light the candle nestled in the bottom of the lantern. He watches it flicker, muted by the paper and whispers the words of the song to himself. A song of goodbye, yes, but also a song of new beginnings. Toffney is in the hands of Yavanna now, gone to the earth and the light. Grief and hope all in one. He knows this song because he sang it for his mother when she died. It feels so very long ago now. 

Bilbo glances up when everyone else begins letting the lanterns go, following the first two white lights that now bob over the next field to the east. Yet before he can let his own go, he catches Thorin’s gaze in the glow of his lantern. His eyes are deep and shadowed but he can make out the sadness in them. Demonstrative Thorin may not be but there is great emotion in him, burning in the depths of his gaze like a furnace. It blazes so hot Bilbo imagines he can feel the heat from where he stands. It takes him a long moment to realize that the heat he is feeling is his own, flaring up his neck and cheeks under the heaviness of that dark stare. Quickly, he looks away, bemused. Caught in his stare like some kind of love-struck tween! To mask his embarrassment, he lets the lantern go and sees out of the corner of his eye Thorin do the same. They hover for a moment, just over their heads and then join the rest in a long ribbon of light. 

All the while, the singing continues, new voices joining in all the while. 

Sorrow fills the open field, follows the warm, colorful river of light that does indeed look very much like a sunset as it is lead away by the wind. Bilbo watches it along with everyone else, until the very last lantern has disappeared over the line of the horizon and the night is late in its hour. 

When he looks back at Thorin again, his face is made of unforgiving lines but his eyes unerringly find Bilbo’s. 

He cannot read what is in them this time. He only know it takes him a long time to look away. 

—————————

“Thank you,” Thorin’s voice is grave when it tumbles through the quiet of the summer night. Bilbo glances over at Thorin where he paces at his shoulder. His stride is steady but Bilbo has seen him press a hand to his ribs every so often, belying the pain of his cracked ribs. He keeps his concern to himself, though he walks close enough that Thorin can use his shoulder as support should the need arise. They walk in the soft silvery light of the the moon, just rising over the trees to his left as he and Thorin make their way back to Bag End. Crickets hum in the grass by their feet and lightning bugs still flicker in the bushes. Even so, he is glad for one of the lamps from the Party Tree they were given to walk back with. 

“What are you thanking me for?” he asks as they keep their easy pace. They are not far from the front door and he is eager to get behind it. The wind has started to get cold. 

“For bringing me tonight. For letting me witness…I did not know funerals could be so beautiful,” his boots crunch softly on the narrow dirt paths, drowning out what little noise Bilbo makes. It is a good sound, proof that he is not alone. It has been many long years since he walked these lanes this late at night in another’s company. 

“What are dwarven funerals like, then?” Bilbo wonders aloud without thinking. Then he winces, glancing at his companion. But Thorin does not scowl and turn away like he would have if upset. Instead he grows quiet and serious. Not an angry or offended kind of serious but introspective. Or maybe just sad. Finally Thorin sighs, glancing up at the star studded sky as they turn up Bagshot Row, Bilbo’s green door lit welcomingly on top of the hill. 

“When our own die, we return them to the earth. In tombs of stone buried deep underground. And then we gather and sing. But not like the songs that you sung tonight. They are…songs of fellowship, of stone and metal and earth. There are no lights when we say goodbye except in the jewels and gold they wear when they are buried,” Thorin looks at him through the tumble of curls that have escaped his braid, eyes black in the darkness, “But they are similar too. We all say goodbye, no matter the manner in which we do it.” Bilbo’s throat feels tight by the time Thorin stops speaking. Hobbits and dwarves may be very different in most things but when it comes down to it, they still experience grief and loss in similar manners. 

“Thank you for coming tonight,” Bilbo says quietly after a while and Thorin’s smile sends a sliver of warmth through him. 

The peace of the night, however, is shattered by a shrill voice. 

“Bilbo Baggins, how dare you!” both he and Thorin whirl around at the sound. Behind them stand Lobelia and Lotho, both with matching scowls on their faces and even in the dim lantern light he can tell Lobelia is spoiling for a fight. Undoubtedly spurred on by his own treatment of her yesterday, Bilbo thinks with regret, “How dare you bring this dwarf to a Lighting!” her voice rings out over the fields and suddenly, he wishes she would lower her voice. 

The night bugs have fallen silent and he hates how exposed they are. 

A thrill of fear spikes through him and beside him Thorin shifts uneasily as he glances around at their surroundings. He suspects if Thorin has a weapon on him, it would be drawn. Lobelia and Lotho notice nothing. 

“Lobelia, please,” Bilbo tries because he can feel it, feel the familiar dread crawling up his spine. Was it lying is wait, he wonders, hiding in the bushes and brought on by a sharp, vicious voice? Lobelia’s face twists and she advances on him with righteous indignation burning in her eyes. 

“Don’t you ‘Lobelia please’ me! An outsider at a funeral? Do you have no sense of decency at all?” she gestures to her husband, clearly looking for backup and Lotho nods in what he assumes is supposed to be a wise manner. 

“Quite lacking in taste, cousin,” he agrees, bobbing his head like some dimwitted stork. Bilbo would be angry if he was not so full of fear. In fact, he would be furious. But the field to their right has gone dark and the moon, which was already high in the sky just moments ago, is nowhere to be seen. Even as he looks, the stars wink out one by one, blocked from view by some onerous darkness. Bilbo swallows sticky, bitter terror. Unthinkingly, he reaches over and finds Thorin’s wrist, holding on for all he is worth. Under his fingers, he can feel Thorin’s pulse running fast. 

“It is happening,” he whispers, voice hoarse just as Lobelia steps closer. Beside him, Thorin vibrates with tension. 

“What were you thinking? What an absolute lack of respect and—” ears ringing and throat dry, Bilbo needs to make her quiet down. He drops Thorin’s wrist and marches forward, grabbing Lobelia’s shoulders and give her a sharp shake. Her expression goes from sour to shocked in a moment but he cannot even be satisfied. They all need to be away from this road immediately. 

“Listen to me, you daft woman,” he snaps and for once, she does, “Do you not feel what is happening here? Something very bad is about to happen and we are standing in the middle of it. Bring your complaints to me when all of our lives are not in danger, do you understand?” she stares at him and then shivers. Lotho makes a low sound of fear when something slithers by in the grass off the road. 

“What…” she begins with wild eyes just as Thorin growls,

“Bilbo, we need to go,” Bilbo gives his cousin one last shake and lets her go. 

“Get out of here,” he hisses and turns away, lets himself be grabbed by big, rough hands and dragged up the lane. He hears Lobelia scream but when he cranes his neck to look over his shoulder, he only sees a flash of skirts and shadow. The night sky is blank and dark and the lane is cut off, a wall of blackness growing up out of the dirt. At some point Thorin had dropped the lantern and its tiny light is easily swallowed up and snuffed out. 

Bilbo stumbles and feels the brush of something horrid against his ankle. It is reaching for him, it is going to get him…

And then Thorin is there, righting him and urging him on. 

“Run, Bilbo!” Thorin shouts. They sprint through his front gate and are only momentarily brought up short by the door before they are stumbling through it into the darkened entryway. Thorin slams the door shut but not before Bilbo can see black shadows twining around his lovely front gate. He can only breathe again when the bolt is thrown and they are left in darkness. 

All that can be heard for long, horrible moments is the sound of their harsh breathing and he can see Thorin pressing his hand to his side. They wait, wait for the shadow to smash against his front door and rattle it on its hinges. Terror runs through Bilbo’s veins like ice and his knees are weak, so weak he thinks he might fall over. Surely a little bit of wood and a lock will not keep out evil. But no matter how long they wait, nothing happens. Finally Thorin, pressed against the back of the door, carefully peeks out the lead-paned window beside the door and Bilbo can see moonlight shining on his silvery black curls. 

“It is gone,” Thorin whispers, collapsing back against the door. Bilbo whimpers and slides to the floor, hiding his face in his hands. He has no idea what happened to his cousins. Despite his differences with Lobelia, he does not wish her harm. But he is too afraid to go out and look. 

“Bilbo,” Thorin’s voice is warm and close and a moment later, a strong hand curls around his shoulder. Surprised, Bilbo looks up to find Thorin has joined him on the floor. He tries to give his companion a weak smile but judging by the way Thorin’s brow furrows in concern, he does not think it works. 

“It is getting worse, isn’t it?” he whispers, fear clogging his voice. Thorin sighs and shifts closer, leans his shoulder against Bilbo’s. At first Bilbo stiffens at the touch, unfamiliar and unasked for. But it is comforting too and he slowly relaxes into it, lets Thorin’s warmth bleed into him to chase away the chill that has settled in his bones, “What are we going to do?” the question falls like a broken shard of glass, sharp and hopeless and Thorin offers him no answer. He just tightens his grip on Bilbo’s shoulder and offers him what little comfort he can give. 

Under them the flagstone floors grow cold and they retreat into the kitchen, where Bilbo makes them both hot tea and makes sure Thorin has not torn open his stitches in their mad dash. 

And if their touches linger a little longer than normal, seeking warmth and comfort, neither remarks upon it. 

——————————

Upon a hill, removed from most of the lights and homes of the Shire, stands clusters of small stone monuments marked with the names of those who have passed. The cemetery is quiet this time of night, moonlight gleaming on the newer stones and flowers left behind by loved ones. Not a cricket stirs in the well kept grass and not a firefly flickers among the short, rounded stones. Only the wind is a lonely witness, humming softly as it dances through. 

One of the stones is the newest, clean and white with one neat, chiseled name still untouched by weather and time crisp upon its surface. At the feet of the stone, the dirt is freshly churned, only placed there this morning. 

The name on the stone is Toffney Brown. 

Into the peace of this cemetery steals a shadow. It slithers like a snake, low to the ground and lacking any limbs to propel it. It weaves through the haphazard rows of stones, sometimes stopping in front of one or another before moving on. As it passes, flowers wilt in their bundles and vases and the moonlight dims. It had failed to snatch the one it really wanted and cannot wait any longer. It is angry but it is greedy too. 

The shadow stops in front of Toffney’s grave, convalesces into one giant mass and considers the grave marker. Then it slides into the ground, into the new dirt like it is water and disappears. 

The moonlight returns and a brave cricket chirps not far off. 

Slowly the night returns to normal, allowed to deepen and grow old as the land waits for the sun to return. But before the sky starts to turn grey in the east, before the birds begin to stir on their perches and the green growing things anticipate warmth and heat, something very not normal happens. 

A boy stands in front of a shiny new grave marker, skin pale and eyes burning with an unnatural fire. When he smiles, it is full of sharp teeth. For a moment he admires his hands and arms, torso and legs, down to the oversized furry feet. Maybe not the body he intended to take but it would do. 

With a laugh that curls the grass at his feet, the boy turns away and strides out of the cemetery. Shadows cling to his ankles and wrists as he walks.

Long after he leaves, the cemetery stays cold and silent and the sun, when it finally rises, cannot penetrate the darkness that curls around the crown of the hill.

**Author's Note:**

> un-beta'd. sorry for any mistakes


End file.
